


a giant mess tbh

by rideahorse



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Drabble Collection, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff, M/M, That is all, from my tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-10 14:51:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 56
Words: 52,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5590360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rideahorse/pseuds/rideahorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is just a collection of drabbles from my tumblr to keep them better organized.  That is all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Iwaoi

They make a habit of going out near every weekend, sometimes to the bar that Oikawa loved so dearly to chat and drink, sometimes just staying at home and watching the shitty B-list alien movies Oikawa always managed to scrounge up. Winter doesn’t put much hindrance on these plans, as Hajime quite enjoys the cold and Oikawa wouldn’t put aside plans just for some weather (that is, unless it risked rain and the exposure of Oikawa’s dreaded secret of using hair product). 

It’s on one of these nights as they go out that the wind is a special something fierce, long after the trees are already bare and the birds have gone south. 

Oikawa bristles upon reaching the bottom of the stairs of their building and emerging into the cold winter air. He brushes against Hajime’s arm, visibly shaking, until Hajime raises an eyebrow and turns towards him with a flat question of, “What?”

Oikawa sticks out his bottom lip in a comic imitation of a pout. "Iwa-chan, I’m cold.“

Hajime’s brows hitch higher up on his forehead as he scans over Oikawa’s light outfit, consisting of clothes that were likely considered more for their appearance than function. "So? Look at what you’re wearing, Bakawa. It’s no wonder.”

Oikawa’s eyebrows scrunch together as he stares at Hajime, crossing his arms in a pout that is far less subtle than he likely thinks. 

“Your jacket looks really warm, y'know.”

Hajime scoffs, turning and starting to walk along the sidewalk towards their usual bar. "Go get changed. You’re a fast runner, you can catch up.“

The whine of Iwa-chan that follows is enough to make him nearly stick out his foot to trip Oikawa, but he resists that temptation and instead buries his hands in his pockets, noting as Oikawa chooses to simply follow and not go back for a coat. Hoping (but not knowing for certain) that means Oikawa would be done complaining, he lets out a breath.

The silence lasts a few more blissful minutes, before Oikawa pipes up once more. 

"Sure is cold. Don’t you think?”

Hajime lasts through three other, increasingly creative comments about the weather before dutifully handing over his coat with a bitter remark about how childish Oikawa is, trying to ignore the way Oikawa’s face lights up in childish delight as he dons the fabric. 

By the time they make it half-way to the restaurant, Hajime is losing feeling in his very much coat-less hands and seriously considering tossing Oikawa in the nearest fire–Hajime’s coat and all. That would warm him up, for sure. He clenches his teeth as they march along, Oikawa swinging his arms beside Hajime like a child. 

Oikawa has his chin buried in the collar of the coat, Hajime notes as he watches (just out of boredom, he tells himself), obscuring half his face. Hajime feels his cheeks redden slightly as he watches the breeze ruffle Oikawa’s hair, and is honest enough to admit it likely doesn’t have to do with the cold wind. 

He swallows roughly as Oikawa looks over and catches him staring, his eyes crinkling at the edges as if he’s smiling beneath that coat. Hajime scowls, looking away and rubbing one of his arms to try to get the goose bumps to go away.

The sidewalk is suddenly fascinating to Hajime–so much so that he almost didn’t see Oikawa pull his hands out of the coat’s pockets. Almost. His gaze snaps up in surprise as Oikawa laces his fingers with his own, slim hand a few shades lighter than Hajime’s. 

Oikawa blanches under Hajime’s stare, almost seeming to hesitate as he looks up at the sky, before regaining his composure and giving Hajime one of his award-winning grins. 

“It’s cold, right?”

Hajime hopes his cheeks aren’t visibly red–or at least, that Oikawa isn’t clever enough to pick up on the reason they were red. He glances away, at the numerous cracks in the sidewalk, and mutters a quiet, “Yeah.”

(And as they arrive to the restaurant, finally releasing their intertwined fingers as Hajime holds the door open for Oikawa, Hajime finds himself feeling perhaps not as cold, even without the coat.)


	2. Tsukkiyama

They’re up on Kei’s roof one Thursday night, watching the stars after feasting on the dinner that Kei’s mother had once-again made too much of. It isn’t cold, not hot either, as summer slowly eases into fall. 

“Tsukishima-san made a great dinner,” mumbles Yamaguchi, glancing over with bright eyes. “I want to say hello to her before I leave.”

Kei averts his eyes, scowling at his knees as he pulls them up to his chest, resting his chin. “Don’t call her that. It’s weird.”

Yamaguchi snickers slightly, and Kei barely catches the eye roll, is too busy staring at Yamaguchi’s languid smile. He doesn’t smile like that at school; that one is more polite, almost restrained. Kei swallows and goes back to staring at the frayed fabric in his jeans.

“What do you want me to call her then? I can’t exactly call her Tsukki, Tsukki.”

Kei freezes, closing his eyes and hissing, “Then don’t. Call me Kei instead.”

He isn’t looking at Yamaguchi as he says it, partly because he’s a coward and partly because of a particularly interesting strand of thread in his jeans. Or so he tells himself.

Yamaguchi only hums and warrants him a slow, “Okay, Tsu–Kei.”

It takes Kei a few moments to gather his wits and hope that his skin isn’t a glaringly obvious crimson reminder of how that one word makes him feel. Fortunately for him, Yamaguchi remains silent. Kei tilts his chin up, allowing the cool breeze to run across the back of his neck as he angles his head towards the stars.

After a moment, Yamaguchi whispers, “What are you thinking?”

“The stars kind of remind me of you, I guess,” he says, not thinking. Not you, he wants to correct himself, your freckles. It’s just a comparison.

Yamaguchi giggles quietly, and teases, “Do you have a crush on me, Tsukki?That was almost romantic. How unlike you.”

Kei swallows and scowls. “S-shut up.”

But Yamaguchi presses, clearly enjoying himself. He pokes Kei in his shoulder, leaning forward and informing him in a near-whisper, “It’s okay. You don’t even have to say it. I know how you feel.” And then he’s leaning back, laughing to himself, eyes bright and smile wide and freckles practically glowing under the stars.

Kei knows better, but he can’t help himself. It’s not my fault if he’s right, he tells himself, as a poor excuse.

As he leans towards Yamaguchi, he tells himself not to think, as he knows he’d ruin it by thinking. And as his lips brush Yamaguchi’s, and he feels Yamaguchi freeze, he squeezes his eyes shut. Even so, he can still imagine Yamaguchi’s horrified face against the black of his eyelids, and so he pulls back after a mere moment, face burning and eyes immediately scouring the sky with renewed interest.

He feels Yamaguchi shift beside him, and hears the unmistakable “Kei,” that bubbles up with Yamaguchi’s laugh.

Kei shivers as Yamaguchi frames his face with his hands, runs a thumb across his jaw, earnest eyes holding his gaze. He’d be lying to himself if he couldn’t see the stars reflected in those dark eyes.

“You’re so embarrassing,” whispers Yamaguchi, lips smiling as he kisses him again.


	3. Kuroken

Kuroo first discovered Kenma’s freckles as a mistake. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, was simply trying to tug a grumbling Kenma out of the house (as Kenma was groggy from having stayed up too late playing video games), and suddenly was veering a bit too close to Kenma’s face, and– And there they were. Just a small smattering of faint freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

And Kuroo was hooked.

Everyone made minimal complaints as he decided to move that day’s practice outdoors, because it wasn’t too hot, and Kuroo figured (hoped, really) that maybe the sun would make them more visible.

If they were more visible, Kenma wouldn’t have a reason to shove his face away from getting uncomfortably close again.

They practiced outside often over the course of the next few weeks, and Kuroo made several valiant attempts to try to see the progress on those small dots, but Kenma managed to evade his looming gaze every time.

(He often wondered how Kenma always managed to successfully duck even with his eyes glued to a game.)

Kuroo thought he’d be lucky sometime during a Tuesday water break, when Lev had made the loud exclamation of, “Kenma-san, I didn’t know you have freckles!” And then the whole team had been hovering around Kenma, making faint noises of surprise and amazement. Kenma merely let himself be observed, glancing up from his PSP every few seconds to the faces of his teammates.

And Kuroo thought, Well, this is my chance. He’d have no reason to push me away if he hasn’t pushed away the others.

So he took a step, and then another, and then said, “Wow, Kenma, they’re ri–” And with the third step, Kenma had reached out a calm hand, forcefully shoving Kuroo’s face away.

Kuroo accepted this punishment with a grumble, walking away to start cleaning up the volleyballs, for lack of better thing to do. And he’d tried to forget it, tried to push it from his mind, but he only made it to after practice, when the two of them were walking home, before feeling like he was about to burst.

“Why don’t you let me look at your freckles!” 

Kenma jumped from beside him, fingers twitching and messing up a 210 Combo! on whatever game he was playing. He cast Kuroo a gaze that was a mixture between annoyed and confused.

Kuroo blanched, swallowing. “S-sorry, Kenma.”

They continued walking, Kenma finishing up his level before sighing and muttering a nearly-inaudible, “…It’s embarrassing.”

Kuroo blinked, tugging his bag more firmly onto his shoulder. He tilted his head slightly, leaning forward to try to see Kenma’s face better and not just the reflection of his face on the PSP screen. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Kenma ducked his head more, letting his hair fall in a sort of protective curtain that he used often around strangers. He made a faint noise, as if trying to find his words, before saying, “They’re stupid.”

Kuroo’s eyes widened. “What? No, they’re not! They’re great. Everyone loves them!”

Pushing his hair back behind his ears, Kenma gave Kuroo a confused look, cheeks red (and Kuroo was really hoping the redness wasn’t from the heat this time). He seemed to panic after a moment of eye contact and then went back to his game, starting a new level.

“I don’t.”

Kuroo rolled his eyes. “Hm, then I guess I’ll have to love them for you then.” The sudden shriek of a dying video game character caused Kuroo to freeze, brain catching up to his mouth. 

“I mean!” he continued, flustered. “Uh, I’ll love the…four…of…you.” 

He winced, muttering a regretful, “Shit,” to himself and managing to avoid Kenma’s gaze for a solid few seconds.

But when he turned and caught Kenma staring at him in surprise (and watched as Kenma quickly whipped his gaze back to the game, hiding a small smile underneath his hair), he didn’t mind messing up so much. Kenma cleared his throat after a moment, steeling his shoulders as if about to take a leap.

“I’d like that.”


	4. Bokuaka

The sun is hot against Bokuto’s face as he stirs, which is weird, he thinks, because he sleeps with the curtains drawn. Maybe, though, with how drunk he and Kuroo had gotten last night– His head pounds against the rock-hard pillow. Something brushes against his feet, and he frowns, pulling his knees up to his chest. And then he hears a scrit-scrit nearby, causing him to open his eyes in surprise, expecting a mouse, or worse, a giant spider–

There’s a guy with a broom standing above Bokuto, dark eyes wide and startled, and maybe, Bokuto thinks as this guy stands frozen above him, maybe it’s just the light. But he could swear that this guy has a halo.

“Uh,” Bokuto begins, eyes drifting down to see that the thing that has woken him is, in fact, a dirty old broom, clenched tightly between the guy’s thin fingers. And, that he’s currently lying on the ground underneath what appears to be a table at an outdoor cafe.

“I’m sorry?” says the barista–he must be a barista, he’s wearing a well-fitted blue apron, and even Bokuto never knew an apron could be well-fitted, but here he is– “I…I didn’t want to wake you.”

Bokuto laughs nervously, causing Mr. Handsome to flinch slightly at the loud sound. He makes an attempt to sit up, keeping his eyes glued to Mr. Handsome, and slams the top of his head against the glass table, making his headache double in size. Groaning, he covers his head with his hands.

Mr. Handsome drops the broom in surprise, before leaning down and reaching out a hand for Bokuto to take, another one loosely wrapping around Bokuto’s bicep as he attempts to pull him to his feet and place him in one of the chairs.

“I…” Mr. Handsome puffs up his cheeks, looking slightly flustered. His hands seem to hover around Bokuto’s head, as if debating something, before he reaches out and wraps his fists tightly around the broom handle. He takes a step back, glancing over at the cafe entrance, before instructing, “Wait here. I’ll bring you some water.”

Bokuto nods numbly, watching Mr. Handsome leave–and oh no, with a butt like that–before burying his head in his arms. He waits a few moments for the headache to subside, but it doesn’t seem like that’ll be happening anytime soon. How drunk had he even gotten, to be passed out in front of some random cafe? He groans again, pulling his cell phone out from his pocket and opening his messages as he tiredly rests his chin on his forearm. 

To: Kubroo

wth did we dooo

It’s only a mere few minutes before the phone lights up in response, as well as sending Bokuto a casual reminder that he has about 15% of battery left.

From: Kubroo

dude are you ok. where did you go? we couldn’t find you last night lol

Bokuto scowls at the phone.

To: Kubroo

i just woke upp at some rando cafe. the barista sweepin around myy comatose body. he’s so hot too killl me

Bokuto lifts his head slightly, squinting out at the cafe to see it completely empty. The sign hanging in the doorway says it’s not even open yet, which means it’s well before seven a.m. Splendid.

From: Kubroo

lol

From: Kubroo

it’s fate

From: Kubroo

u 2 should date

From: Kubroo

my head is ded pls come help me bro. bring me aspirin xxo

Bokuto jumps as something is placed on the table in front of him, and looks up suddenly to see Mr. Handsome standing right next to him, extending a cup of water in his direction. As Bokuto takes it, Mr. Handsome leans down to start unwrapping what appears to be a bag of bagels. Lastly, he takes an oddly-shaped bag and pulls up a chair, setting it on Bokuto’s head.

The cold seeps in from the bag, easing the throbbing. Mr. Handsome leans in close, adjusting it for a moment, and Bokuto is stunned silent by this positively ethereal being in front of him. He didn’t even know eyelashes could be that long. Could brown eyes be that dark, either? Noses so delicate?

Mr. Handsome’s gaze flicks down to Bokuto’s, and he murmurs, “What’s your name?”

Bokuto stares at his lips. Oh my God, he thinks. I’m so–

“Gay,” he says wistfully. 

Mr. Handsome’s eyebrows crease in confusion. Bokuto blinks and cocks his head slightly, before realizing what just came out of his mouth. "I mean!“ he adds hastily. "I mean. Uh, my name is Jay! But…everyone just calls me Bokuto.”

He clears his throat, feeling his cheeks redden. Mr. Handsome licks his lips and attempts to hide a small smile. 

“My name is Akaashi. Everyone calls me Akaashi.”

He wants to say that name, to roll it around in his mouth. But, knowing it’d be weird to just repeat the guy’s name, he bites back this urge. 

“Nice to meet you,” he manages. The politeness tastes weird in his mouth.

Akaashi seems to sense this somehow, and ducks his head, before pointing at the table. "I brought you some bagels. The bread helps with your…er, condition. I would’ve brought you more, but I don’t want to get in trouble with my boss.“

"I love bagels!” shouts Bokuto, causing Akaashi’s eyes to widen in surprise. 

“Right,” he says slowly, rising to his feet and pushing the chair back in place. He wipes his hands on the apron, giving Bokuto one last curious, slightly concerned look. "I have to finish up. If you need anything else, I will be inside.“

Bokuto watches him leave once more, watches as Akaashi throws an unreadable glance towards Bokuto and he closes the door behind him. Fighting back the urge to sigh, he feels like he’s fallen into a deep, deep hole.

His phone buzzes from underneath his palm, breaking him from his thoughts.

From: Kubroo

bo don’t leave me

From: Kubroo

bo do u know what happened to kenma

To: Kubroo

omg didd you lose him too

From: Kubroo

wtf no he’s right here. i’d never lose him bro

Bokuto sighs.

To: Kubroo

alright what happenedd to kenma

A few minutes pass without a reply, and Bokuto manages to look up from his phone in time to see Akaashi reemerging from the cafe with a dishrag and spray bottle in tow. He walks over to the table beside Bokuto, spraying the surface and beginning to wipe it down.

"Why are you helping me out?” Bokuto asks suddenly, taking a big bite of a bagel. "‘Stead of just calling the cops or something.“

"Be not inhospitable to strangers, lest they be angels in disguise,” quotes Akaashi, and then freezes, fingers gripping the rag tightly. He attempts to duck his head, hands braced on the table, and takes a breath.

He turns to Bokuto, cheeks slightly flushed. “That’s from a writer,” he adds, as if that will somehow change the meaning of the words.

Bokuto has never been so in love.

“Do you own this place?” he questions. “Is it yours alone? You’re so young though, to be owning a place. How old are you? Do you go to school? I do. Is that where you learned that quote?”

Akaashi blinks, brows pulling together in concentration. "No, I work here. I’m just getting it ready to open, Bokuto-san.“ He pauses, as if trying to piece his thoughts together. "Please don’t ask so many questions at once.”

Bokuto sticks out his bottom lip, pouting. “I was just curious.” He takes another bite of the bagel. “Besides, if anyone’s an angel here, I think it’s you.”

Akaashi says nothing, and Bokuto’s brain once again catches up to his mouth. He chews the bagel slowly, before snapping his gaze upward to see Akaashi frozen, face beet-red as he stares at Bokuto. The bagel feels caught in his throat all of a sudden, so he hastily grabs for the water and takes a sip, trying to ignore the fact that oh god, he’s cuter when he’s blushing. His phone vibrates as he swallows down sip after sip, and he opens the message, before promptly spitting a mouthful of water out on the table in surprise.

From: Kubroo

i kissed kenma lol

Akaashi gives him a tired look. “Bokuto-san, I just cleaned that table.”

Bokuto snaps his gaze up, fingers already racing to type out a response as the ice pack slides off his head. "Right, right. Sorry, sorry! I’ll clean it up for you!“

To: Kubroo

you meann like that timme we accidentally kissed like as bbros or like a full homo kiss?????

He nearly slams his phone down on the table in eagerness, pushing to his feet. Akaashi startles slightly, throwing Bokuto a concerned glance. Bokuto simply holds out his hand for a cleaning rag, nodding eagerly at Akaashi’s hesitance. 

"Just that one table,” instructs Akaashi, gently placing the rag in his palm. "You don’t have to do any others.“

Bokuto nods again, wrapping both hands around the rag and practically skipping back over to his table. He watches his phone as he vigorously scrubs the glass, patiently (or at least, that’s what he calls patient) waiting for a reply. He can feel Akaashi’s eyes on him, and bites his lip.

"Are you–?” 

Bokuto focuses on the table, waiting for Akaashi to complete his question. He can imagine the number of things that could come next. Are you okay? Always this excitable? Always so loud? Annoying? Downright aggravating? He’s heard them plenty before.

“Single?” 

Bokuto coughs, wheeling around to see a crimson-faced Akaashi. 

“I mean,” adds Akaashi, fidgeting slightly with his apron. "You’re texting someone really eagerly. I was just curious if that was your girlfriend or something. I’m sorry, that’s probably rude to ask–“

"No!” yells Bokuto. “Me? No! Ohoho. No, no. Definitely single. One hundred percent single here. No girlfriends or, uh, boyfriends.” He clears his throat.

Akaashi nods slightly. "Right, or boyfriends.“

Bokuto’s phone vibrates on the table, forcing him to tear his gaze away from Akaashi, who is quite quickly becoming the most beautiful person Bokuto has ever seen in his life. His feelings–which, granted, are often quite difficult to decipher, as Bokuto is a rather scatter-brained person–can only best be described as…

From: Kubroo

100% homo

Bokuto resists screeching at this reply, knowing very well that apparently Akaashi has been noticing how eagerly he texts Kuroo, but–oh my gosh, he thinks, Kuroo finally did it! This has to be greater than that one time he and Kuroo managed to get Megane-kun to do an Irish jig after a long night of drinking. Instead, Bokuto shoves the rest of a bagel into his mouth and finishes wiping down the table.

To: Kubroo

i'mm so proud of yoou bro :’)

The reply is near instantaneous this time around.

From: Kubroo

i think u and i hav good karma from when princesskawa got a hold of those pics that one time lol. go out and seize the day bro

Bokuto bites his lip and turns to Akaashi, handing over the cleaning rag. He pockets his phone, knowing that, although he’d much rather have Kuroo’s advice in the asking-people-out field, the two percent of battery he has left won’t be of much help. Rocking back and forth on his feet and avoiding the gaze of a curious-and-very-very-beautiful Akaashi, he chirps, "How much are the bagels?”

Akaashi blinks, lips pursing slightly. "You don’t have to pay for those.“

"Aw, but, Akaashi!” Akaashi only blinks and tilts his head, and Bokuto thinks that perhaps he’s getting used to Bokuto’s loud outbursts. 

“You have to let me pay you back,” he insists.

One of Akaashi’s (perfect, delicate) eyebrows hitches itself higher up on his forehead. "Bokuto-san, it sounds like you have something in mind already.“

Bokuto nods, perhaps a tad bit sheepishly, and says, "Well, um, it would be terrible for me to get your number. I mean! It wouldn’t be terrible to get your number, it would be terrible to not get it. I would like getting your number. That would be good.”

Akaashi ducks his head towards his shoulder, lifting one of his arms slightly in an attempt to hide his laughter. Bokuto’s face falls. 

"Aw, man,“ he says. "I messed that up.”

Shaking his head through a fit of laughter, Akaashi manages to reach a hand toward Bokuto, pulling out a pen and writing something on the surface of Bokuto’s hand. "I don’t think you messed that up,“ says Akaashi, and Bokuto swears his smile is brighter than the short redhead he likes to hang around sometimes.

"Awesome,” he replies intelligently, staring at the new blue digits on the back of his hand.

Good karma, indeed.


	5. Iwaoi

“Do you think,” Oikawa begins one early morning at around 2:00 am, half hanging upside down off the edge of Hajime’s bed with his hands folded over his stomach, and Hajime thinks for a second he might be about to ask something important.

“Do you think aliens–” he tries again, before giggling briefly at the thought of his question.

Hajime rolls his eyes, trying to focus on the stupid, stupid level of a game he can’t seem to beat. "Feel free to not finish that question, thanks.“

Oikawa glances over, face strained as he visibly struggles not to laugh. "No, no,” he insists. "It’s important, Iwa, I swear.“

Hajime simply grunts, signaling Oikawa to get on with it, then. 

"Okay, do you think aliens would be capitalists or communists or–?” He pauses, sitting up from the bed to look at his government textbook (which had been abandoned somewhere around midnight, despite the fact that they were both supposed to be studying). Hajime glances over once, trying not to laugh over the way his hair sticks up in all directions and his face remains red from hanging up side down for so long, the same red he’d been blushing when Hajime had–

“GAME OVER.”

"Or do you think they’re theocratic?“ finishes Oikawa as Hajime scowls at the screen of his game. "And are they religious? Do you think they have multiple religions?”

“Doesn’t it depend on the planet?” Hajime counters with a tired sigh. "It would vary depending on the planets.“

Then Oikawa’s chin is resting on Hajime’s shoulder as he holds his textbook in front of Hajime’s face. Hajime hears the whine of a dying video game character as his vision is cut off, and glares at the pages, where Oikawa taps a chart with his pointer finger.

"See, look at this. It’s like an evolutionary tree, but, for like, religions,” says Oikawa, breath warm and humid near Hajime’s neck.

Hajime glances over, raising his eyebrow. “That’s two chapters ahead of our test.”

Oikawa pauses, wide eyes shifting between Hajime and the book. He gives a shrug after a moment. "I read ahead.“

"You did not read ahead.”

Oikawa glances up towards the ceiling. “And how do you know that?”

Hajime cracks a small grin. "You were thinking about the religions of aliens before, weren’t you?“

It’s Oikawa’s turn to roll his eyes, and he taps the page of the textbook with more vigor. "You aren’t paying attention. Listen, I was thinking that they’d be polytheistic, yeah? Because–”

“That’s assuming they’re less technologically advanced than us, right? Like our system of ancient religions,” Hajime murmurs, humoring him.

Oikawa frowns. "I mean, couldn’t they still be technologically advanced? And what if they had contact with other planets, and that’s what got them to have polytheistic beliefs?“

"If they’ve had contact, how do they not see the other aliens as distinctly different beings, not gods?”

Oikawa’s frown deepens, and Hajime tries to bite back a grin. "You’re not helping,“ Oikawa says at last.

"Well, I can’t help that your theory doesn’t make any sense,” he says, not even able to keep the smile off of his face.

“You–” Oikawa begins, brows furrowed in deep thought, and then glances away from the textbook. He rolls his eyes upon seeing Hajime’s expression, dropping the textbook onto Hajime’s lap. "Oh, you’re teasing me.“ He sighs and removes himself from Hajime’s shoulder, laying on the bed and staring at the ceiling.

Hajime turns, resting one of his arms on the bed. "Are you going to pout?”

“No,” comes Oikawa’s voice, real quiet.

“Are you pouting?”

There’s a pause. "Maybe.“

Hajime groans, placing both the textbook and his game on the floor beside him. He climbs up onto the bed, crawling on his hands and knees over to where Oikawa is laying and flopping down on the bed beside him. Oikawa rolls onto his side, facing away from Hajime like a child mourning the loss of a treasured stuffed animal.

"I tease you all the time,” says Hajime, idly running his hand over Oikawa’s shoulder. "What’s the problem now?“

Oikawa’s silent for a moment, and then he says quietly, "Because you're right.”

Hajime ducks his head into his shoulder to hide his laugh. He attempts to compose himself, wrapping his arm around Oikawa’s waist and resting his chin on Oikawa’s shoulder. “I’m right about alien politics?” he clarifies.

Oikawa lets out a hum that sounds more like a whine. “Not right, no. You don’t have a good enough theory. But you’re right about mine being wrong.”

Hajime hums, nudging Oikawa’s cheek with his nose. “And you’re pouting over that?”

Oikawa turns slightly, giving him an irritated look. “I spent, like, two hours thinking about this the other day in class.”

Hajime is pressing his lips against Oikawa’s cheek at about the time he says this, and he breaks, not being able to conceal his laughter.

“Stop,” Oikawa whines, and then laughs. “Stop, it’s not funny, oh my God." He laughs harder at the feeling of Hajime shaking against him. "Iwa, it’s not funny, it’s not–you just spit on my cheek, oh my God, that’s gross.”

Hajime lifts his head, snickering. “These two hours wouldn’t happen to be the time you failed that test because you didn’t fill in the answers in time, would they?" He sees Oikawa’s guilty smile and laughs, wiping Oikawa’s cheek with his sleeve. "Tooru, it's hilarious.”

“Oh my God, no, it’s not,” Oikawa insists with a betrayed expression. “It’s not–" He dissolves into laughter and throws an arm over his eyes. "Stop it, you’re making me laugh.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop,” promises Hajime, glancing over to the clock. He pauses, nuzzling his nose into Oikawa’s hair and letting out a relaxed sigh. "We should sleep.“

Oikawa hums in response, reaching a hand behind him to card his fingers through Hajime’s hair. "We’re going to fail the test.”

“I’m not,” protests Hajime, leaning into the hand. "You might, though. You apparently only studied religions.“

Oikawa shifts, rolling until he’s facing towards Hajime, nestled against his chest. He glances up at Hajime, and rolls his eyes. "And I apparently didn’t even study religions correctly, since I was wrong about everything.”

Hajime snickers, brushing Oikawa’s hair back from his forehead in an attempt to see Oikawa’s eyes more clearly, because he very much likes those eyes. "Hey, no, don’t say that.“ He cracks a wicked grin. "Acknowledging you have a problem is the first step to fixing it.”

“Rude,” whispers Oikawa, trying to conceal a grin by pressing his lips against Hajime’s. "Always so rude.“

Hajime hums, grinning and blinking slowly. "I love you, though.”

Oikawa freezes slightly, and then lets out a breathy laugh, scooting closer and wrapping his arms tighter around Hajime’s back. “You’re always so blunt, aren’t you?”

Hajime only yawns in response, feeling his eyelids grow heavier. He nods slightly, gently brushing his thumb against Oikawa’s cheek. 

Oikawa smiles, one of his rare genuine smiles that he always tries to save just for Hajime, and he places a hand over Hajime’s. “Alright,” he allows. “Let’s sleep.”


	6. Asanoya

I want that.

That’s the first thing Asahi thinks when Suga and Daichi finally stop beating around the bush and admit how they feel to each other. It’s the only thing he can think of (alright, perhaps he’s also mentally screaming, “Don’t kiss in front of the first years!”) when they show up to practice, hands linked and faces merry. In fact, it’s Daichi and Suga’s constant PDA that make Asahi realize that, perhaps, his feelings for their spitfire of a libero are more than just platonic.

There’s only one problem, he thinks. 

He could swear Nishinoya’s straight.

It’s either that, he figures, or Nishinoya is blissfully (for Nishinoya), painfully (for Asahi) unaware of the way Asahi pines–and there’s no other word for it, really. He’s pining.

And pining after Nishinoya has done nothing but mess with his head. So much so that, during one practice, when Asahi gets lost in his thoughts of holding Nishinoya’s hand–thoughts spurred on by actually seeing Daichi grasp at Suga’s–he actually fails to notice Nishinoya coming up behind him.

“What’re you lookin’ at, Asahi?” questions Nishinoya, making Asahi jump in surprise. He follows Asahi’s gaze after a moment of Asahi’s hesitance, to where Daichi’s running a hand over the side of Suga’s face, likely asking if Suga’s okay after a near-collision with one of Hinata’s spikes. 

Nishinoya snorts. “Oh, that, yeah. Aren’t they gross?”

The comment leaves a bitter taste in Asahi’s mouth–does Nishinoya think that they, that two guys are gross?–and so he hastily makes an excuse and scrambles to leave the gym, nearly knocking over a basket of water bottles and giving poor Yachi a fright. He can’t bear to hear anything else from Nishinoya’s mouth, not when he’s so afraid of how Nishinoya would react to how he feels.

Nishinoya, however, never likes to give up so quickly, and so Asahi’s surprise is limited when Nishinoya appears around the side of the gym, hands on his hips as he hollers, “What’s wrong?” And because it’s Nishinoya, the words are more a demand than a question, which does nothing but rattle Asahi’s nerves.

Asahi takes a breath, slowly turning to face Nishinoya, because he knows that he’ll never hear the end of it–and yes, he has been through the hell that is a stubborn Nishinoya before–if he doesn’t tell him. Attempting to not stutter, and failing, Asahi manages, “Y-you think that’s gross.”

Nishinoya gives him a questioning look, almost confused, before supplying, “Yeah, ‘course they are; they won’t keep their hands off of each other! I admire the captain, but there’s a time and a place, and I know that might sound weird coming from me, but I mean, restraint? It’s like every practice is a love fest.”

“You mean, you d-don’t think that them..the two of them…er, the, both of them as guys… You don’t think that’s gross?” Asahi asks meekly, twiddling his thumbs.

Nishinoya stares (much in the same way he stares at other liberos when trying to figure out their secrets), causing Asahi to shift uncomfortably. After a moment, seemingly not having found his answer, he cocks his head. “…Why would I think that? I thought–is that why you’re upset?”

Asahi nods hesitantly, feeling slightly better, before elaborating, “But not just that, I guess. I…what would you think if I wanted that? What they did? The stuff you call gross.”

Nishinoya’s brows draw together as he narrows his eyes in concentration. He pauses, and Asahi knows he’s only ever silent when he’s thinking very hard.

“Who do you want that stuff with?” he says at last.

“W-what?”

Nishinoya gulps in a breath like he’s been running a mile, and his face, Asahi realizes, is as red as a tomato. But he forges onward despite that. “’Cause like…I mean…it’d only be gross if it was with someone I don’t like, y’know? ‘Cause, I mean, like, you and me probably wouldn’t be gross. That’d be, like, cute.”

Asahi can suddenly feel his heart beating quite loudly and quite quickly. He swallows. “You think you and I would be c-cute, Noya?”

“Yeah! Let’s do it! We’ll be cuter than Daichi and Suga-san!” Nishinoya stomps his foot, as if emphasizing his excitement, and practically glares at Asahi because of the intensity in his gaze. “Let’s hold hands back to practice!”

Asahi blinks, his jaw nearly dropping. “I–” He stares incredulously. “Noya, are you doing this to mess with Daichi and Suga?”

“What?” crows Nishinoya, eyes wide as if shocked Asahi would suggest such a thing. “No? I’m doing this because I like you.” 

“What?”

“I like you, Asahi!” he practically yells, causing some students walking nearby to startle in surprise and quicken their paces. Asahi turns bright red and resists the urge to cover his face with his hands.

“That’s n-not how you confess to someone, Noya,” he practically whines, but slowly reaches out to Nishinoya’s extended hand regardless.

And when the two of them return to practice, earning a disapproving “Asahi, that’s inappropriate behavior for practice,” from a traitorous Daichi and Suga, an excited squeal from Hinata as he tugs on Kageyama’s sleeve, and a giant thumbs-up from Tanaka, Asahi thinks that maybe even pining would be better for his mental health.


	7. Kurotsuki

“Nngh.”

Kuroo jolts at the sudden weight on his shoulder, nearly losing his grip on the bottle of beer that he’d been holding for–

He scowls, craning his neck to see where Bokuto had even gone, before glancing back down at the person on his shoulder, who has just thrown an arm around his waist. And–oh. 

He swallows.“H-hey, Tsukishima,” he says, then clears his throat, cursing himself for stuttering. He can practically see Bokuto shaking his head forlornly, murmuring a soft, That’s so not cool, bro. 

He prods Tsukishima’s cheek gently. "Hey, don’t fall asleep. You’ll get sick.“

"Don’t care.”

Tsukishima lifts his groggy head slowly, blinking wide eyes up at Kuroo’s face. Kuroo notices that his glasses are gone, and is treated to an up-close view of how fucking cute Tsukishima is, and goddamn it I’m gonna stutter again if I open my mouth. Bokuto wouldn’t approve.

Tsukishima takes his silence as consent and grunts, nodding and then shoving his head back into the crook of Kuroo’s neck, one of his hands fisting in Kuroo’s shirt. 

“Wait,” he insists, shifting slightly in order to hold Tsukishima’s shoulders between his hands. Tsukishima nearly scowls at being moved, before hiccuping and widening his eyes in shock.

Kuroo bites back a laugh at the fact that Tsukishima’s hiccups just scared him, and asks, “Do you know where your friends went?”

“What friends?” snaps Tsukishima, regaining his scowl. 

Kuroo ducks his head into his shoulder, attempting to conceal his laugh. He gets himself under control after a minute, turning back to Tsukishima and saying, “What about Freckles? Or Sawamura?” He thinks about Karasuno’s famous duo, and adds, “Or what about Shorty and his scary setter friend?”

Tsukishima scoffs and attempts to stand, but wobbles and lets Kuroo guide him back onto the couch. "Those guys aren’t my friends,“ he warbles, waving a finger in Kuroo’s face and shaking his head. "I like ‘em. But they’re stupid.”

“Oh?” Kuroo breathes, raising an eyebrow and a wicked grin. He slings an arm over the back of the couch, facing Tsukishima, and questions, “What about me, then? Am I your friend?”

“What? No,” says Tsukishima without hesitation, cocking his head as if the answer should be obvious to Kuroo. He then scrunches up his nose in confusion, glaring around at everyone in the room. "Why am I here again?“

Kuroo covers his mouth with his palm, trying not to laugh. He reaches out a grabs a nearly-empty cup from Tsukishima’s hand, placing it on a nearby table. Turning back to Tsukishima, he says, "You came to have fun, yeah?”

“That’s stupid,” mutters Tsukishima. "With you guys?“

"Uh huh.” Kuroo clicks his tongue. "Believe it or not, Princess, you can have fun with us, even if you like to pretend otherwise.“

Tsukishima doesn’t acknowledge this, instead leaning forward into Kuroo’s personal space so quickly that Kuroo has no choice but to shut his mouth immediately, staring with wide eyes as Tsukishima scowls at his face. He swallows, feeling his cheeks grow hot as the heavily-intoxicated Tsukishima slowly raises a finger and pokes Kuroo right in the cheek. He makes a noise of assent, nodding to himself and then sitting back.

"Wha–?” Kuroo swallows again, forcing himself to take a breath and focus on speaking normally. "What was that for?“

"Didn’t know you had freckles too,” says Tsukishima with a shrug. He hiccups. "Yama’s got 'em. I like 'em. They kinda make me happy, I think.“

Tsukishima surveys the room with a sense of boredom, before turning back to Kuroo after a moment and scowling again. "What’re you staring at now?”

“N-nothing,” he says, and winces. So not cool, bro.

He clears his throat, nudging Tsukishima’s arm. "Hey, maybe you should have some water. Clear your head?“

"That’s–”

“Stupid, yeah, I know.” He stands anyways, holding out a hand for Tsukishima. "Just come anyways. It’ll help.“

Tsukishima glares at his hand, waiting a moment before rising to his feet on his own and immediately swaying. Kuroo lunges forward, wrapping an arm around Tsukishima’s back to support him, and shaking his head. ”You might be the stupid one, y'know,“ he mutters under his breath, trying to ignore the rapid thump-thump of his chest and the feel of wiry muscle under his fingers.

"I feel sick,” is Tsukishima’s only response as Kuroo hastily leads him into the kitchen. But Tsukishima doesn’t vomit (thankfully, Kuroo thinks as he remembers all the times he’s dealt with a drunken Bo), instead only quietly taking the cup of water Kuroo offers him. 

The kitchen is dark, quiet–away from everyone still mingling and laughing in the main room. Kuroo thinks he saw the entirety of Fukurodani challenging his teammates to a match of ping pong (he doesn’t entirely understand the logistics, but he’s more curious as to why Bokuto and Akaashi aren’t present in the challenge). But that was in the main room, and now he’s forced to acknowledge the fact that he’s alone with Tsukishima, and forced to acknowledge the dreadfully pleasant way that the moonlight ghosts Tsukishima’s hair and cheeks, and the way he slouches against the counter, long legs stretching out in front of him like a map that Kuroo desperately wants to explore.

Tsukishima looks up, catching Kuroo staring, and his eyes narrow into a scowl.

“Why,” begins Kuroo, glancing away. "Why do you keep glaring at me like that? I’m helping you.“

Tsukishima only narrows his eyes further, reaching up to his face and then dropping his hand. "Can’t see,” he says.

Kuroo blinks. "Oh.“ He swallows, then smiles. "Sorry. I can go find your glasses if you–”

“Why’re you being nice to me? Aren’t we, like, rivals? Which is stupid–” He cuts off, blinking in surprise at Kuroo’s laugh, and then crinkling his nose. "Your laugh is hideous.“

Kuroo leans against the counter beside him, shaking his head and ignoring the latter comment. "Ha, that’s funny. Us, rivals? No, I don’t think so. At least, I don’t think of you as a rival.”

“What, are we friends?” questions Tsukishima, sounding genuinely curious. 

Kuroo stops his laughter abruptly, turning to Tsukishima and blinking. 

Tsukishima only bristles. "What? You asked me if you were my friend. I said no. But what about you?“

Kuroo lets out a nervous laugh, looking down. "I mean, you, my friend? That’s, uh. Why wouldn’t we be friends? I mean, that’s.” He clears his throat. "I would assume that that’s as far as anything between us could go, yes. So, in terms of goals, yes, I’d like to be your friend. I’d like you to consider me one, at least.“

Tsukishima hums, sipping his water. "But what am I to you?”

Kuroo glances over at him out of the corner of his eye, and pushes himself up off the counter. "Hey, I think I’ll go look for–“

A hand at his wrist stops him, making him turn slowly. Tsukishima places his cup on the counter, wobbling to a full-standing position, and reaching out his other hand to Kuroo’s other arm, as if for balances. He stays still for a moment, as if trying to gain his bearings, and Kuroo’s heart is beating very fast under the grip of Tsukishima’s hands and "Do not stutter,” is the one rational thought going through his mind.

He opens his mouth to question, and then Tsukishima is wobbling again. Kuroo thinks he’s falling for a second, but as it turns out, Tsukishima is just veering drastically close to Kuroo, and then everything becomes clear for Kuroo when he feels a light brush of lips against the corner of his mouth.

Tsukishima scoffs in frustration and then grips Kuroo’s shoulders more firmly, moving once more to get him directly on the lips. And Kuroo thinks his heart–as fast as it had been going–might just stop. He reaches a hesitant hand up to Tsukishima’s cheek, running his fingers through the curls of hair along the back of his neck, and lets himself be kissed–something he’s sure he’ll regret later, as letting oneself be kissed is quite uncool, bro. 

Tsukishima pulls back after a long moment, pressing his forehead against Kuroo’s and scowling down at the ground. He opens his mouth as if to speak, cheeks burning red, and Kuroo doesn’t need to hear the word again, so he simply catches Tsukishima’s lips once more with his own.

Stupid.


	8. Iwaoi

_ur coming to the party right. lol it’ll be fun :^)_

Hajime has to pull Oikawa down from the pool table sometime after the ninth shot, making sure that the giggling mess he calls his best friend manages to keep his shirt on.  

“I thought I was going to a party, not babysitting,” he grumbles, keeping his grip firm around Oikawa’s upper arm and recalling that one text Hanamaki had sent him earlier that day.   _It’ll be fun_ , he thinks, scowling.   _Sure_.

“C’ _mon_ , Iwa-chan,” whines Oikawa, laughing and reaching out to grab a shot from one of the people in his class at school as Hajime leads him into the quiet of the kitchen.  Hajime frowns, intercepting the shot before it reaches Oikawa’s mouth, and placing it on the counter.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” he hisses, smoothing Oikawa’s hair away from his forehead to feel how hot he’s getting.  

“No?” replies Oikawa, sounding genuinely confused.  He pushes at Hajime’s hands, sticking out his bottom lip in a pout.  "Stop that, I’m hot.“

Hajime rolls his eyes.  "I can tell.  You were practically stripping.”

“So?” barks Oikawa, then widens his eyes at how loud it comes out, raising his hand to his mouth.  "Oops.“  

Hajime narrows his eyes.  "Oikawa, listen.  That’s enough with the drinks.  I don’t want–”  He sighs, pinching his nose.  "Look, you’re drunk and making crappy decisions and there are tons of girls here who like you, so you’ll probably end up making a poor choice and I really don’t wanna hear about your drunken hook-ups tomorrow–“

Oikawa puffs up his cheeks, stomping his foot.  "Just because I’m drunk doesn’t mean I’m going to suddenly realize I’m not gay and throw myself at the nearest girl!” he protests.

“Of course you–”  Hajime freezes.  He wets his lips, not knowing what to say for a moment.  "Uh, you’re gay?“

Rolling his eyes, Oikawa makes a move to flick Hajime in the forehead, before likely realizing that that would be the last move he ever makes, and consequently dropping his hand.  He nods, making an attempt to reach for the shot on the counter, but Hajime swats his hand away with an intimidating look.

"So mean, Iwa-chan,” whines Oikawa, cradling his hand against his chest.

“Answer the question,” Hajime demands, feeling his heart leaping into his throat.  As much as everyone teases Oikawa about the constant fretting of his fangirls, has Hajime actually ever seen Oikawa respond to one, aside from the occasional good-natured flirting?  He can’t think of an instance, now that he sets his mind to it.

“Oh my _god_ ,” drawls Oikawa with an annoyed look.  "Yes.  Wasn’t it obvious?“

Hajime blinks, scowls, and holds up a hand.  "No, actually. I’m lost.”  Has he considered his very real, very not-straight feelings for his best friend?  Absolutely.  Has he considered the possibility that his best friend might _not_  be too straight to reciprocate?  Not exactly.  Hajime doesn’t typically refer to himself as the best at thinking about too many things at once.

“Typical,” says Oikawa with a small shrug, tipping back the shot glass–wait, where had he even gotten that?  Hajime wheels around and sees a guilty Hanamaki running out the kitchen door, covering the back of his head with his hands as if he expects Hajime to throw something at him.  Hajime runs a frustrated hand through his hair, deciding to just drop the first issue.

“Tooru, hear these words, okay?  Makki is dead on Monday,” he says through gritted teeth, shaking his head.  "Traitor.“

"It’s bubblegum-flavored,” says Oikawa, magically procuring another shot from a tall someone–ah, Matsukawa is also getting added to Hajime’s hit list when he gets home–and offering it to Hajime.  

“Yeah, ‘cause bubblegum booze is so appealing.”  Hajime makes a face, then hastily grabs the shot as Oikawa goes to down it.  "Alright, alright, I’ll have some if you stop.“

"Good,” crows Oikawa, throwing an arm around Hajime’s shoulders.  "You’re too serious.“

"If I wasn’t serious, you’d probably be naked on a pool table right now,” mutters Hajime with a raised eyebrow, downing the shot.  He gags.  

“And I don’t think anyone here would complain if I was naked on a pool table,” chirps Oikawa, then laughs at Hajime’s face.  

“Stop laughing at me, this stuff’s sweet.”  He can feel his cheeks burning from the idea of Oikawa, dancing naked on a pool table, not just the booze, and makes himself scowl to cover it up.

“What, you don’t have a sweet tooth?” teases Oikawa, nudging his shoulder.

Hajime carefully maneuvers himself out from underneath Oikawa’s arm, avoiding the dangerous curve of Oikawa’s lips, flushed from hours of partying.  “I do,” he admits.  “But I draw a line with _bubblegum_  vodka.  What are you, fourteen?”

“It’s good,” protests Oikawa, his eyes scanning Hajime’s face.  The grin slips slightly, as if he’s distracted, and then his eyes flutter back up to Hajime’s.  “You’re not having fun,” he states, not even questioning.

Hajime raises an eyebrow, leaning back against the counter.  “I…didn’t say that. Part of me just wishes you weren’t totally…incapacitated.”

Oikawa scoffs, offended, and tilts his chin up.  “Makki-chan has informed me on multiple occasions that I am a highly entertaining drunk.  He said that everyone loves me.”

A snicker escapes Hajime’s lips as he glances over.  “Yeah, I’m not denying that.  Pain in the ass, though.”  He sees Oikawa’s mouth open to protest, and hastily adds, “But you’re more honest this way.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m pretty sure you just came out to me.  Which is kind of a big deal, Trashykawa.”  He worries his lower lip, thinking for a moment, and then adds, “Remind me that I have something to tell you tomorrow.”

Oikawa rolls his eyes.  “You could tell me _now_.”

“You’re drunk.  There’s no point to it.  And besides,” Hajime says with a raised eyebrow, “unlike some people, I manage to keep my coming out for when I’m sober.”

“You’re pretty sober,” Oikawa points out, his eyes lowered to–is that Hajime’s mouth?  Hajime isn’t sure, and simply scowls in response.

“I think you’re missing the point here.”

“Yeah, but–”  Oikawa puffs out his cheeks, unsure of how to make his defense.  He looks like he’s thinking really, truly, very hard to formulate an argument, and Hajime can’t help but laugh.  He trails off after a moment, though, noting the way Oikawa’s eyes haven’t moved.

“Why’re you staring at my mouth?” he asks at last, feeling a dusting of pink across his cheeks.

“Because I was not thinking about kissing you.  I was thinking about…ducks,” replies Oikawa, wide-eyed, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Hajime blinks.  He lets himself look down at Oikawa’s lips (“just once,” he tells himself), observing how Oikawa bites at them and desperately wishing for him to stop–for Hajime to _make_ him stop.  But he can still smell the liquor on Oikawa’s breath, an ever-present, sugar-sweet reminder.  He sighs, sounding sort of pained.

“I _really_ wish you weren’t drunk right now.”

 

* * *

 

“Mmmpf.”

Hajime lifts his head at the sudden noise, squinting around at the room around him to find– _Ah_.  Well, that’s normal enough.  

Oikawa snorts, turning over and pulling all of the blanket off of Hajime’s body in a solid tug.  The cold air pricks at his legs, making him groan and grab the blanket, shoving at Oikawa’s shoulder and trying to bite back his sleepy smile as he hears the familiar _thud_  and accompanying groan as Oikawa hits the floor.

“Iwa-chan,” whines Oikawa from the floor, voice grating from overuse.  “That’s not how you wake someone up.  I’m– Oh, that really hurt.  I’m _hurt_ , Iwa-chan.”

“Go the fuck back to sleep,” grumbles Hajime, pinching his eyes shut and attempting to ignore the shuffling as Oikawa rises from the floor.

“What happened last night?” Oikawa asks, sounding dazed.

Hajime shrugs lazily, not even bothering to open his eyes.  “Honest answer or easy answer?” he croaks.

There’s a pause.  “Honest?”

“You told me you were gay and I think you tried to hit on me,” he mutters quietly, rolling onto his stomach and covering his face with a pillow.

“I did _not_.”  Another pause.  “Oh, God.”  Hajime waits for him to process.  “No, I–Did I kiss you?”  He pauses a third time.  “Wait, no, that’s not what happened. _You_ –”

Hajime snorts, voice muffled by the pillow.  “You think I’d let you kiss me?”  The bad phrasing registers late in his sleep-deprived mind, and he makes an attempt to amend himself.

Oikawa lands back on the bed with a whoosh, interrupting with an, “Oh?” that sounds far too teasing for someone who’s supposedly rotting in embarrassment.

Sighing, Hajime lifts the pillow off of his head and faces Oikawa.  He elaborates slowly and clearly, “You think I’d let you kiss me _while you were drunk_?”

Oikawa holds Hajime’s gaze for far too long in a manner that is far too calculating for Hajime to feel comfortable with, this early in the morning.  He rolls his eyes, and asks, “Why aren’t you hungover, idiot?”

“You made me drink, like, eight glasses of water.”  Oikawa pauses, grin evident as he murmurs,  “You said there was something you had to tell me, remember?”

“Wow, we’re getting right into it, aren’t we?”  Hajime buries his face in the pillow once, giving himself a moment to catch his breath and already regretting setting that reminder last night.  “I’m not even fully awake, fuck you,” he hisses into the fabric, not sure if he’s cursing the pillow or Oikawa or just his general existence.

“Iwa–?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”  He sighs, lifting his head and scooting across the bed until he can lazily grasp at Oikawa’s hand.  “I–uh, I’m not really sure how this stuff goes, but–um.”  He takes a breath, forcing his gaze away from the look of open surprise on Oikawa’s face.  Voice slightly quieter, he murmurs, “I, you see, uh…”

“Iwa-cha–”

“Oikawa, for the love of God, please just shut up for one second and let me do this thing because it is really embarrassing and–”

“ _Hajime_.”

Hajime glances up, wide eyes meeting Oikawa’s and seeing that _oh, God.  That idiot is about to laugh at him, isn’t he?_   He scowls, opening his mouth to insult him.

“You don’t remember?”

“Remember _what_.”

Oikawa’s face looks strained to the point of laughter as he glances away and then back to Hajime, tightening his grip around Hajime’s fingers, thumb stroking absentmindedly against Hajime’s palm.  “You, uh, overcame your aversion to bubblegum vodka after Hanamaki proposed an arm wrestling contest with shots, and, well.  Somehow…”

“Out with it,” Hajime mutters, feeling blood rush to his face and his life flash before his eyes.

“We wound up making out on a pool table, I think?”  Oikawa puts a finger to his chin, seeming to think.  “Or maybe it was Mattsun’s bedroom?  I think it was both, actually.  And, uh, I think Makki got a video of you singing _You Are My Sunshine_  to me.  There was a ring pop proposal involved, too.  And, hey, that was before you found Mattsun’s collection of–”

Hajime buries his head in the pillow, groaning.  “Please, _please_  stop talking.”

Oikawa’s laugh will be the death of him, he thinks, as Oikawa leans down to press a kiss against his temple.  “I have the video saved, if you want to see it.  I think it’s sweet.”

“Go the _fuck_ to sleep.”

 

* * *

 

_so how was the party :~) did u have fun…w ur boyfrieeeeend_

Hajime scowls at his phone and debates throwing it–or, better yet, Hanamaki–out of the nearest window.

Somewhere behind him, Oikawa’s laughing and singing along to a bad-quality recording of _You Are My Sunshine_ , and Hajime really, _really_  wants to hate this turn of events a lot more than he does. 


	9. Iwaoi

In every friendship exists a line, one that stands in order to prevent everything from falling apart, and sometimes to hold back. Hajime knew this, and so did Oikawa. They danced often around this line through the years; they knew that dance better than anyone else. Hajime knew, just as much as Oikawa, that there was something between them, hovering just on the other side of that line, always within reach but not quite within reason.

That something was ever-present, hidden beneath small touches of comfort, laughs shared with crinkled eyes, and gazes held for far too long for just friends. It was there–Hajime knew, Oikawa knew–always noticed but never spoken on.

But Hajime could feel the line quivering, threatening to break by his own weak will, cracks appearing with every radiant, genuine smile Oikawa gave him, every “Iwa-chan” that grew less teasing and more sincere with each passing year. He figured it was a miracle, for the line to have remained intact this long anyways, but knew that miracles didn’t always last.

And maybe sometimes they weren’t supposed to, he thought, listening to the gentle breaths Oikawa made as he rested his head on Hajime’s shoulder. The redness around his eyes (which Hajime couldn’t see, but knew was there nonetheless) served as the only remaining indication of the tears that were shed in their graduation ceremony. It was quiet, nothing but the summer cicadas making their drones through the still air, as Hajime traced the veins in Oikawa’s hands–bony fingers grown strong from their years of controlling a ball, bending entire games’ outcomes to their will. 

Hanamaki and Matsukawa were there as well, somewhere–the party was for all the third years, after all–but they had left to get some festival food before the fireworks were to begin. Hajime was left with Oikawa, just the two of them, as it always was.

The line was growing thinner–stretched with every puff of breath Hajime felt against his neck, bringing goosebumps to his skin. It stretched with every circle his thumb traced against the smooth palm of Oikawa’s hand. It stretched, a pull so strong that Hajime could practically feel it creaking, snapping, by the inevitability of their last day together.

Oikawa shifted beside him, restless energy emanating, and Hajime knew how to identify each of his moods as if they were his own. Nervous.

“Next year,” Oikawa began, voice barely stronger than a whisper, “I don’t want us to drift apart.”

Hajime squeezed his hand. "We won’t,“ he said, as easy as breathing.

Oikawa’s hand was warm, pliant within Hajime’s; he took a breath, twining their fingers, Oikawa holding tight as if Hajime were his lifeline. "You say that like you already know,” he murmured, breathily, like he’d made an attempt to laugh but had failed.

Hajime shrugged, wrapping his arm around Oikawa’s back, in the way that he knew brought Oikawa the most comfort. "Some things you just know,“ he said, turning his face into the crown of Oikawa’s head, his mouth tickled by the hair in a wordless kiss.

And it was that way–had been that way for years. The wordless support, comfort, things that weren’t quite said but shown. They’d been dancing along that line their whole lives, sometimes daring to take a step over, only to be pulled back across by the other. It was a dance well-choreographed, well-practiced, to the point where they were comfortable pretending that the line didn’t even exist. No line would mean that there’s nothing beyond where they were–that they could stay where they were forever. 

Ignorance is bliss, Hajime had thought on many occasions as he watched Oikawa laughing and pressing kisses against any of his past girlfriends. It’s better this way, he’d thought while holding him close in comfort as the girls had, one at a time, without fail, broken Oikawa’s heart. 

Fuck ignorance, he’d thought as the ball hit the floor in their last game together, a spike that Oikawa had given Hajime. We don’t need it, he’d thought as Oikawa had wrapped him up in a hug that made him forget loneliness existed. We just need each other, he thought as Oikawa had taken his hand with an excited whisper about the fireworks, laughing as they trailed behind Hanamaki and Matsukawa on the way to the party.

Oikawa hummed beside him. "You just know, huh?” He took another breath, shifting to pull back from Hajime and look at him with earnest eyes. Hajime’s arm fell from around Oikawa’s back, leaving just their hands entwined.

“I want more than to just not drift apart,” said Oikawa, brows furrowing as if frustrated; Hajime couldn’t tell if the frustration was directed at him or not.

Hajime opened his mouth, closed it. Words were never his forte; they’d gone so long without words, silently pretending, that he’d never put his mind to the thought that, one day, he’d need them. Words would become the most important thing to him one day–now. Words had never been needed to tell Oikawa he loved him, but they were perhaps the one thing he could use to make him know.

He opened his mouth again, figuring that a desperate attempt is better than none at all.A shriek wail pierced through the sky somewhere above him, and Hajime watched Oikawa’s face light up into a display of colors, glassy eyes reflecting blues and reds and pinks and golds.

“Oh,” Oikawa whispered, turning his awe-struck gaze to the sky. "The fireworks started.“

He should look, Hajime thought. It was their last chance to watch fireworks together, but Hajime could do nothing but stare as the colors shifted, lights illuminating Oikawa’s face like a painting. Oikawa could catch him staring, he considered. And perhaps a part of him wished for that, because how could the meaning be lost when it was so plain across his face? He was never good with words, but–

The thought stilled him, made his gaze flick over once at the fireworks that lit up the sky. Perhaps he didn’t need them.

Hajime turned back to Oikawa, gently removing his fingers from Oikawa’s and lifting his shaking hand to Oikawa’s cheek. Oikawa glanced over, face contorted in concern at the lack of hand in his, but froze as Hajime’s fingers gently brushed against his jaw, carving their path up to his cheek and fitting there as if the spot was made for his hand and his hand alone.

The line had been crossed, Hajime thought, or was about to be crossed. He wasn’t sure. Years of loving Oikawa had blurred the line into a nonsensical mess that he couldn’t even understand at this point; was there even a line anymore? A lack of a line didn’t mean they had to stay as they are forever, did it? It could’ve meant that there, where they were, was already where Hajime wanted to be.

All he had left to do was lean forward. But he was frozen in Oikawa’s wide eyes, watching the marbled colors and emotions blend together, performing a dance he knew all too well mirrored his own. The skin of Oikawa’s cheek was hot, fire, as Hajime smoothed a thumb gently over it, mind lost in the fact that Oikawa, his best friend, was beautiful, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

"Hajime,” Oikawa whispered, his own hand reaching out to grab onto the collar of Hajime’s shirt, smoothing it down as if wrinkled, his fingers traveling up to rest on Hajime’s shoulder.

It was a gesture as simple, as familiar, as everything else, but enough to bring Hajime back to Earth. A firework boomed above them, shattering Hajime’s uncertainty along with the invisible line between them, and desperation filled the hole that was left.

Hajime reached his other hand up to cup Oikawa’s other cheek, and leaned forward to do what he’d be longing for years ago. 

Their lips met first softly, brushing against each other with the sort of apprehension that builds up after years and years of want. And then Oikawa broke, a sort of breathy mixture between laugh and sob bubbling up against Hajime’s lips. His hands tightened in Hajime’s shirt once before releasing, tracing their way shakily up to wind delicate fingers through Hajime’s hair and pull him forward.

And when their lips met again, the first real kiss, Hajime felt himself exhale in relief. Kissing Oikawa was like breathing, he found–something he could’ve just as easily been doing his entire life. It was a simple ebb and flow, a dance fully on the other side of that line, blissful and open and everything he could’ve ever wanted. And if kissing Oikawa was like breathing, he realized in a sudden moment of clarity, he’d been drowning his whole life.

They didn’t pull back until Hajime realized that he actually did need to breathe, for real this time, and they did so with heavy sighs and eyes fluttering open to find each other’s.

“We can do more than just not drift apart,” Hajime found himself saying, ignoring the thought that they had been more for a long time.

Oikawa smiled, eyes growing bright, and covered Hajime’s hand with his own, tilting his head slightly to press a kiss against Hajime’s palm. He nodded then, dipping his head as if to hide, and allowed an honest, “That would make me happy.”

“That’s what I want. I want to make you happy,” affirmed Hajime, tilting Oikawa’s chin up to hold his gaze.

“You already have,” murmured Oikawa in response. "And you will.“

Hajime’s brows furrowed, both in concentration and confusion, as he brushed some of Oikawa’s hair away from his face. "How do you know–?” he began.

Oikawa cut him off with a shrug, languid and content. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss against Hajime’s lips that made him forget everything–the fireworks, the cicadas, the slight chill in the air serving as a reminder of the sun long gone. 

“Some things you just know.”


	10. Iwaoi

Tooru recalled their usual summer training camp, the laughter on the bus as the team made their way to the beach, the way the sun had started beating down even more than it usually did. It was hot, quite hot (though Tooru didn’t deny attributing some of the heat to the way Iwaizumi had decided to roll up his sleeves). He didn’t recall much after that point, only joking with Iwaizumi on a bench during one of their water breaks, feeling the sweat trickle down his sun-warmed skin, and then–black.

He awoke to the feeling of fingers winding their way through his hair, a gentle yet strong touch that he found oh-so-familiar. It was cooler now, the sun having gone down a fraction, and Tooru could hear the distant sound of some of his teammates playing a match in the sand.

“What happened?” he asked groggily, eyes fluttering open. He squinted up at Iwaizumi, shielding the sun with one of his hands, and offered one of his signature people-pleasing grins. "Did I die and go to heaven? You must be an angel.“

“You fainted straight into my arms,” Iwaizumi muttered, raising an eyebrow and electing to ignore Tooru’s attempt at flirting. "You know, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.“

Tooru figured he must’ve been quite red in the face (why, oh why, was Iwaizumi’s teasing so effective on him when his did nothing to Iwaizumi?), and simply decided to accredit it to the heat. "You seemed content to just leave me here,” he said with a pout.

Iwaizumi stiffened slightly, hand pausing in Tooru’s hair. He stared out at the rest of their team as they practiced, avoiding Tooru’s gaze, and simply shrugged. He took a swig from his water bottle and then brought it back down to rest on Tooru’s stomach, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.“You needed rest, and I was tired,” he elaborated. "You think I could be bothered to lug your ass around to somewhere else?“

Tooru tittered, shifting slightly. "So mean, Iwa-chan. I happen to weigh less than you,” he informed Iwaizumi matter-of-factly.

Iwaizumi snorted. "No, you don’t. Keep telling yourself that, though.“

Tooru squawked in protest, but quickly quieted as Iwaizumi resumed his movements through Tooru’s hair, relishing the feeling. After a moment of just letting his eyes flutter closed and enjoying the slight breeze that had picked up, he asked, "You’re not practicing? Are you slacking, Iwa-chan?”

Iwaizumi hummed slightly, brushing the bangs back from Tooru’s forehead. "No. I’ve told you before; There’s a difference between skipping and resting. And maybe you should get that through your head.“

Tooru smiled sleepily, grabbing at Iwaizumi’s hand and pressing a kiss against the palm. "You sound like my mom when you say that,” he teased.

Iwaizumi sent him a glare that was much less intimidating than his usual ones. "I could dump you on the ground, y'know,“ he threatened half-heartedly.

Tooru gasped, feigning offense. "And risk ruining my beautiful face? You would never.”

Iwaizumi cracked a smile at that, glancing down at him. "Yeah? Well, I might never, but Matsukawa and Hanamaki might. You were out cold, Tooru. Kunimi supplied the permanent markers. I didn’t do a thing.“ 

Tooru froze, releasing Iwaizumi’s hand. "You can’t be serious,” he accused.

Iwaizumi simply smiled and stared out at the horizon. "Can’t I?“

"Oh, God,” whined Tooru, reaching a hand up to his face to feel the sticky presence of ink. "I hate you all.“

"Mmhmm,” agreed Iwaizumi, running his fingers over Tooru’s forehead. "It says ‘Property of Iwaizumi’ here. And here–“ He circled underneath Tooru’s eyes. "You have glasses. Big round ones. And then here–” The pad of his thumb ran over Tooru’s lips. "You have a mustache. I’m leaving out the locations of Matsukawa’s more crude drawings, but I hope that gives you a general idea.“

"Remind me never to trust you again,” hissed Tooru, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Oh, sure,” said Iwaizumi dismissively, hands running along the length of Tooru’s jaw. He bent and pressed his lips against Tooru’s forehead once, before pulling back and glancing back out at the stretch of beach in front of them. Tooru noted the dusting of pink along Iwaizumi’s cheeks and resisted the urge to smile.

“I’ll try to forgive, I suppose,” Tooru murmured. "But only if you keep on being that sweet, caring, perfect boyfr–“

"My new phone wallpaper is Mustache Tooru, by the way,” informed Iwaizumi.

Tooru felt his eye twitch. "Never mind.“


	11. Bokuaka

“Bokuto-san, is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?” asked Keiji as he exited the bathroom where he had been getting ready for class, pulling on his coat with one slim eyebrow raised.

Bokuto groaned, flipping himself over and tugging the blanket over his head. "Because it’s cold, Akaashi. Can’t you feel how cold it is in here? I’m freezing!“ He paused, before sticking his head out of the top of the blanket. "But your bed is awfully warm.”

Keiji sighed and made his way over to the bed, taking a seat on the edge of it. "Perhaps that’s because you’re not wearing any clothes, have you considered that?“

“No, not at all, that’s definitely not the reason,” Bokuto insisted. He shook his head for extra emphasis, before snaking his hand out and tugging Keiji forward. "Can’t you stay a little bit longer?“

"Bokuto-san,” Keiji protested weakly, sighing and attempting to avoid Bokuto’s awful (at least he could pretend they were awful) bedroom eyes. "I have to go to class. Can you not wait until I get back?“

"I’ll be frozen by then! I’ll freeze to death!” Bokuto squawked, his eyes going wide. He stuck out his lower lip. "Do you want me to die, Akaashi?“

Keiji rolled his eyes. "Stop that." 

Bokuto bit his lip, decided to try another method. He reached out with his other hand, trying to pull the coat off of Keiji’s right shoulder. "Hey, hey, aren’t you hot?”

“Bokuto-san, you just told me it was cold,” deadpanned Keiji, but let him pull off his coat.

“Well, uh, yes, but you look very hot,” continued Bokuto, nodding vigorously. He removed the coat from Keiji’s other arm before tossing it on the floor. Keiji watched it sail through the air along with the rest of his free will and sighed as it landed unceremoniously in the laundry hamper.

“Fine,” Keiji muttered, glancing at the clock. "I’m going to be late, I hope you know.“

Bokuto nodded excitedly, grinning. "Hey, that’s not too bad! Just one tardy–”

“Three,” corrected Keiji, flopping over on the blankets to press a kiss against Bokuto’s lips. He sighed then, tracing his fingers over the goosebumps on Bokuto’s arms. "And that’s just this week.“


	12. Daisuga

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> actually an excerpt from another fic i'm writing

Somehow, over the course of the past few weeks, Daichi has developed the biggest crush on his makeup artist.  It started well enough, he figures.  Kuroo managed to convince him to apply for a job in some haunted house—“It’s only seasonal, Daichi, and it pays well.”—and then he’d _gotten_ the job and, well.  It’s not like he can dress himself up as a zombie.  The most he knows about make up was seeing Yui put some eyeliner on maybe once in high school.  So, fortunately for him—or maybe it was _unfortunate_ , since he has a bad tendency to make a fool out of himself in front of ridiculously cute, angelic guys with killer smiles—he had been assigned a make up artist.

Three weeks into the job, and he’s fallen big time.  It’s not his fault that Sugawara Koushi happens to have the prettiest face he’s ever seen, or that Sugawara Koushi has a laugh like music, or that Sugawara Koushi has delicate, slim fingers that Daichi wants to twine with his own. It’s not his fault that “Sugawara Koushi” is constantly running laps through his mind, or that “Sugawara Koushi” makes his legs turn to jelly and his heart beat out of his chest.

It is, perhaps, his fault that he’s waited until the last weekend of the haunted house ordeal to build up his courage enough to ask Suga on a date.  Or—well, it’s not a date, unless coming to see zombie Daichi scare countless high school kids counts as a date.

(It’s a date in spirit, Daichi tells himself.  A pre-date.  A date to build up to…asking Suga on a date.)

“Are you going to come?” Daichi manages to spit out as Suga rubs a garish vomit-green makeup against Daichi’s cheeks.

Suga almost drops the compact of concealer at Daichi’s outburst, but recovers at the last minute.  He pauses, make up applicator hovering somewhere around Daichi’s cheek, and smiles slightly embarrassedly.  "I’m not really good with…scary stuff.“  He swirls the compact in the air lazily, leaving the gesture slightly open-ended.  The brush strokes against Daichi’s skin once, then pauses, and Suga adds, "Sorry.”

Daichi tries to ignore the color springing to his cheeks from the proximity.  His eyes scan over Suga’s long lashes, smooth cheeks, and gently curved jaw.  He bites his lip absentmindedly, before adding, “It’d be fun.  You can invite friends, right?  You wouldn’t have to be alone.”

Suga’s gaze flickers up to his.

“And,” he manages to choke up.  "And I wouldn’t mind seeing you outside of a stuffy makeup room, with Dracula always keeping an eye on us.“

Suga laughs, glancing over his shoulder to the eerie statue of Dracula, piled up in the corner with all the other leftover Halloween decorations.  When he turns back to Daichi, Daichi notes that the tips of his ears are slightly pink, and tries to not to find this _so_ incredibly endearing.

"Alright,” Suga relents.  "I’ll see.“

That, apparently, is a good enough answer for Daichi, who can barely contain his excitement as Suga finishes up the make up and makes his exit from the dressing room, throwing Daichi a cute smile (he bites his lips, Daichi notes) and awkward laugh as he runs into the statue of Dracula on his way out.  And Daichi manages to float in the bliss of a yes (it’s a yes, right?  “I’ll see,” is basically a yes) all the way until Nishinoya joins him in the dressing room minutes later.

"Did you ask him?” asks Nishinoya, leaning against Daichi’s mirrored vanity and trying to appear nonchalant.

Daichi rolls his eyes.  "Yes, I asked him.“

"And?”  Nishinoya leans in close, eyes wide in excitement.

“Stop that, you’re going to mess up your make up, Mr. Ghost Child,” Daichi chides.  He pauses.  "He said he’ll see.”

Nishinoya straightens, eyes widening.  “No way.”

Daichi bites his lip and glances away, not wanting to indulge in Nishinoya’s overly-excited way of reacting to things.  But he finds himself nodding regardless.

“Dude,” breathes Nishinoya.  “You’re in.”

“Get out.”

 

* * *

 

Daichi isn’t sure how long he’s managed to stand tucked away in a corner, legs aching as he only moves to jump out at the spare group of teenagers that stumble his way.  He thinks he forgot his phone in his dressing room (something he curses, really, because he’d wanted to send Suga a cute text earlier), so he can’t even check that, but he thinks it’s nearing on three hours when he hears that familiar laugh that makes his heart leap into his throat.  A nervous laugh, but one that belongs to Suga nonetheless.

 _It’s Suga_! is all that processes in Daichi’s mind as he actually sees Suga, grouped with a few other people, heading around the corner.  In all honesty, he doesn’t even really process the fact that he still has all of his make up on, as well as a costume, is holding a plastic machete, and is hidden amongst one of the darker corners of the room.  He also fails to notice the way an _extremely_ on-edge Suga is currently gripping one of his friend’s arms.

But for whatever reason, the first instinct that Daichi acts on is to say ‘hi.’  And that he does.  Stepping out from the corner, he waves his hand–machete in tow–and opens his mouth to speak.

One of the guys spots him before Suga does, and yelps, stumbling backward, giving Daichi the first indication that _perhaps he hadn’t thought this entirely through_.  Because then, before he can even greet him, Suga wheels around and screeches, and then– _wham_.

Daichi blinks dazedly.  One of his hands–he’s dropped the machete, he notices belatedly–reaches up to his lip, and feels a bit of warm wetness.  "Oh,“ he says, almost confused.  He stumbles backwards.  "Oh.”

Suga’s eyes go wide in shock.  "Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize–“  He steps forward, cutting off and squinting.  "Oh my God, _Daichi?_ ”

Daichi manages a nod, trying to pinch his nose to stop the bleeding.  He grunts.  "Ye–ah, it’s me.“

"Holy shit,” says one of Suga’s friends.  "It’s him.“

"You just–Suga, you just punched him in the face,” supplies another.

“ _Oh my God_ ,” repeats Suga.

“I, uh.”  Daichi swallows, feeling blood well up faster under his hand.  The bridge of his nose hurts; he wonders absently if it might be broken.  He starts laughing, tilting his head up to stop the bleeding and swaying slightly from light-headedness.  "Remind me never to get you mad,“ he teases Suga.

Suga stares with wide eyes, then reaches out to grab Daichi’s arm as Daichi sways dangerously close to one of the wall decorations.  He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, and turns to one of his friends.  "Oh my God, we need–uh, we need–”

“First aid?” suggests one, raising a dark brow.

“Yeah!”  Suga nods vigorously, tightening his grip on Daichi’s arm.  "Yeah, Bokuto, help me bring him to the ticket office.  They should have stuff there.“

The other one nods, jumping over to Daichi’s side.

"I’m fine,” Daichi attempts to insist.

Suga throws him a stern look, eyes intense.  "No, I did this, so I’m taking care of it.  Now put your arm around me.“

Daichi doesn’t have it in him to protest.

 

* * *

 

“I am _so_ sorry,” says Suga for perhaps the hundredth time, gently wiping crusted blood off of the bridge of Daichi’s nose.

Daichi winces at the touch, causing Suga’s eyes to widen.  “Oh, God,” he says with a shake of his head and a sigh.  “I still can’t believe I did that.”

Daichi laughs.  “Really,” he assures.  “I’m okay.  It wasn’t your fault.  I probably should’ve considered that I’m dressed up like a grotesque monster.”

Suga meets his eyes and raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.  

Daichi swallows.  “Hey, it’s okay.  If anything, I’m impressed by your strength—“ He cuts off at the sight of Suga’s alarmed expression, choking back his laugh. “Okay, okay, maybe not the best time to bring that up.”

“It’s not funny,” insists Suga, running a thumb along Daichi’s cheek absentmindedly.  “I _broke your nose_.”

“Which is impressive,” says Daichi.  He reaches up and covers Suga’s hand with his own, causing Suga to freeze and glance back up at him with wide eyes.

“Daichi?” asks Suga, sounding choked.

“I, uh.”  Daichi swallows and glances down, face burning crimson.  “I’m mostly just glad to see you—yknow, outside of work.  I don’t really care if you punched me or anything, ‘cause I get to see you more and—and maybe I’m not particularly opposed to you taking care of me.”

Suga’s laugh bubbles up quietly at first, as if he’s nervous, and then he reaches his other hand out to frame Daichi’s face and presses a kiss to Daichi’s forehead.  “You’re ridiculous,” he whispers, shaking his head and pulling back.  “You could’ve just asked me to dinner, you know that?”

Daichi offers a sheepish smile.  “You were kind of too pretty and I was kind of too nervous.”

“That so?” quips Suga, running his fingers affectionately down the sides of Daichi’s face in a way that Daichi’s been longing for ever since the first time Suga applied his make up.  He sighs contentedly, smiling at Daichi in a way that almost looks relieved.  “I was nervous too,” he admits after a moment.

“Then can we, maybe, try again?” asks Daichi, and then elaborates, “A first date, I mean.  I can take you out to dinner and you can not punch me and everything will be perfect.”

Suga laughs, and buries his face in Daichi’s shoulder, whining in embarrassment.  “I’m so sorry,” he says again, and then, “Yes.  I’d like that.”

“Then it’s a date.”

Suga hums softly in response, and Daichi slowly wraps his arms around Suga’s back, tentatively twining his fingers in between the feathery softness of Suga’s hair.  After a moment, he hears Suga whisper, nearly inaudibly, “Can I kiss you?”

He jolts, and Suga pulls back to look him in the face, expression open and slightly nervous.  “I’m sorry, I just—“

“Why’d you even ask?” Daichi asks, eyes widen.  He nods.  “Of course you can, I—“  He swallows, nods again.  “Yes.”

Suga laughs, and points at his face.  “I, uh.  Your nose.  That’s why I asked.”

“Oh.  Well, that’s your own fault and I don’t see why I should have to miss a kiss because of it,” Daichi attempts at teasing.

“Shut up,” says Suga with an embarrassed smile, and makes Daichi do just that.


	13. Kuroken

There’s a soft rumbling outside.

Kenma sits up immediately, dropping his PSP on the bed beside him, and listens. Dappled sunlight barely filters in through his curtains, and he can’t recall what time of day it must be, can’t even remember if it’s the same day as when he’d last went downstairs for some food, but could it be…? That rumbling is different than the thunder that’s been echoing around Kenma’s room for a while now, and it makes Kenma’s heartbeat quicken, because it sounds eerily similar to the motorbike Kuroo’d gotten before he left for college.

The rumbling comes to a stop, directly outside of Kenma’s house.

Kenma’s eyes widen. He throws the covers off of his body, swinging his legs off the bed, and makes a mad dash to his bedroom door, flinging the the door open. And then he’s running.

There’s a knock, and then soft padded footsteps towards the door.

Kenma swings around the staircase, his shoulder hitting the wall with his momentum. He changes directions, just barely focusing enough to keep from missing a step and falling down the stairs. He can feel his heart leaping into his throat with every step, anticipation building.

“Oh, Tetsurou-kun! How good to see you,” says Kenma’s mother from the door.

Kenma runs into the front hallway, swinging his gaze wide, and then– Oh, God, he sees him. He sucks in his breath and keeps running, passing his mom and jumping, and he’s weightless, but he knows Kuroo will catch him. And then there are arms wrapped up around his back and he’s panting, he thinks, and he can feel Kuroo’s nose nuzzling into his hair and it smells warm and like apples and Kuroo’s home, he’s home. Kuroo might be laughing, or maybe Kenma’s crying, because there’s hot puffs of breath between their faces and maybe the wet is from the rain, he isn’t sure.

Kuroo slowly sinks to his knees just inside the front door, holding Kenma close to him. Kenma can hear his mother shut the door and then pad slowly back down the hall, offering them privacy. And then Kuroo is pressing his lips against Kenma’s cheek, and pulling back to look at him–see him again for the first time in a long while.

“You’re home,” states Kenma, small fingers reaching out to wipe the rainwater off of Kuroo’s cheeks.

Kuroo nods, reverent eyes sweeping over Kenma’s face. He reaches a hand out to tug on Kenma’s hair softly, noting how the blonde has grown out down to his ears. "Did you miss me?“ he asks, smirking softly.

Kenma snorts. He knows he doesn’t need to answer, because Kuroo knows how much he’s missed him, and instead says, "You were gone for a long time.”

Kuroo nods, arms tightening and bringing Kenma close to his chest. Resting his chin on Kenma’s head, he says, “I had lots of finals. I have to do really well on them to stay on the team, you know? So I spent a lot of the time studying. I’m sorry I couldn’t text you more. But I’m back for two weeks.”

Kenma simply closes his eyes, drinking in the familiarity of Kuroo and snaking his arms underneath Kuroo’s jacket for more warmth. He can feel the rumbling in Kuroo’s chest as Kuroo laughs at him, but he knows Kuroo’s always loved when Kenma wanted to be closer. 

“It’s okay,” he says, and then, “You didn’t tell me you were coming today.”

Kuroo laughs, pressing his lips to the top of Kenma’s head. "I wanted it to be a surprise.“

"In the rain?” Kenma asks, leaning back slightly to look at Kuroo. 

“I wanted to see you,” protests Kuroo, leaning his face away from Kenma to sneeze. 

Kenma frowns disapprovingly, smoothing back the mess of Kuroo’s hair to feel his forehead. He ignores Kuroo’s shit-eating grin at the touch and instead focuses on the warmth of his skin, and the redness in his cheeks. Kuroo’s an idiot, he thinks, but what else is new? He smiles softly, and ducks his head to try to hide it beneath his hair.

“I’ll have my mom make some soup,” he says. "It sounds like you should stay a while.“


	14. Kuroken

“Can I help you?“ Kuroo asked, peeking around the edge of the shelf to where a boy was planted, maybe five inches to the right of where he’d began twenty minutes ago, when Kuroo had first spotted him wandering.

The boy startled, phone slipping from between his fingers and onto the floor. He hastily ducked to pick it back up before spinning and facing Kuroo with a red face partially concealed by his hair—an outdated dye job that Kuroo struggled not to find pretty endearing.

"Uh,” he began. "I don’t–“

"You’ve sort of been inching towards the sexuality section for, like, twenty minutes, I think.” Kuroo pointed to his name tag. "I can help you find what you’re looking for, if you want. You can be in and out in twenty seconds. I promise.“

The boy shifted on his feet, awkwardly glancing at the shelves around them, as if trying to avoid Kuroo’s gaze. "Okay,” he said after a moment. "Do you, uh…“ He took a breath. "Do you have any books on asexuality?”

Kuroo blinked, and reached a hand into his hair, thinking. “Yeah, ‘course we do,” he said. “They’re—hm. Let me check down here. Follow me.” He started walking around the aisle, the boy following behind him and nearly running into his shoulder as Kuroo came to an abrupt stop. He nodded, satisfied, at the books to his left, and pointed them out to the boy, smiling.

“Should be right here,” he said.

The boy nodded, glancing up at the top shelf, and then seemed to hesitate. He looked down at his feet, shuffling slightly, and then mumbled, “Could you…maybe, reach them?”

“Oh! Yeah, shit, sorry,” Kuroo said, eyes wide at having forgotten how short this guy was and how tall the shelves were, even for him. His words then processed as his fingers touched the spine of one of the books. “Oh, shit, I’m not supposed to curse on the job—wait, shit.”

The boy blinked, then ducked his head, but Kuroo couldn’t ignore the small glimpse of a smile. “Thanks,” he murmured, taking a book from Kuroo. His head tilted in confusion at the sight of a duplicate book in Kuroo’s hand. “Oh, uh, I only need one…”

Kuroo shrugged and then took a seat on the floor, the shelves digging into his back. “Oh, yeah, I just like to avoid my boss by reading books in the stacks, you know? I usually piggy-back off of customers for ideas on what to read. And this seems pretty interesting, because I don’t really know much about it,” he explained.

He flipped to the first page, scanning the table of contents. The boy seemed really shy, and although he was really cute and Kuroo would really like to keep talking with him, he kind of accepted his losses and assumed the boy would just leave, book in tow. However, with the turn of another page, he noted that two feet remained stationary beside him.

“You find it interesting?” asked the boy, causing Kuroo to glance up.

Kuroo nodded, breath slightly caught in his throat as he took in the way the lights sparkled into a halo around the boy’s head.

The boy bit his lip, hesitating for a moment, and then sat beside Kuroo, holding the book against his chest like a shield. “Most people don’t know what it is,” he admitted slowly, avoiding Kuroo’s eyes. “But you think it’s interesting? Enough to learn about?”

Slightly confused (and slightly flustered by the proximity, though unwilling to admit it), Kuroo tilted his head. “Yeah, anything can be interesting enough to learn about, right? Just depends on the people.” He glanced down at his own book, debating continuing, before asking, “What makes you interested in it?”

The boy’s cheeks flushed, and he looked down in his lap. “Just thought it sounded like someone I know,” he said quietly.

Oh, Kuroo thought, quietly closing his book and turning just barely in an attempt to give the boy more of his attention. “Do you want to talk?” he asked.

The boy’s gaze snapped up, eyes flaring wide and—shit, Kuroo thought, I blew it, I just offended him. He opened his mouth, to apologize, but paused when the boy shrugged, looking to the side and running his fingers over the spine of the book. 

“I—uh. Do you—“ The boy puffed out his cheeks, seeming to grow frustrated, and then tried again. “Do you know what it is?” he asked.

“Not really,” Kuroo admitted. He shrugged, leaning his head against one of the shelves. “I mean, I know about asexual organisms from biology class or whatever, but. I don’t think this is the same thing.”

The boy nodded. “It’s not. It’s, uh. It’s kind of complicated, I think. It’s like, when someone doesn’t have any…sexual…feelings or desires or anything. Towards other people. But there are different levels of it and everything.”

“Okay,” Kuroo said, trying to think it through. “So they don’t want anything to do with sex?”

The boy blushed slightly, rubbing his shoulder in embarrassment. “Not necessarily. Just like, they don’t want to do it themselves. Sometimes it’s different though, for different people.”

“That’s actually interesting,” Kuroo admitted, glancing down at his book and flipping through the pages. He thought about asking the boy about his “friend,” but ultimately deemed it too risky, and at this point, he was far too afraid of messing things up and having the guy run out on him, feeling terribly offended or—worse—humiliated. So he bit his tongue, but fortunately, the boy piped up after a short moment.

“Do you think it’s bad? Or, uh, do you think that anyone would actually want to be with someone like that…even if they don’t want to, you know?” he asked timidly.

Kuroo looked at him incredulously. “Of course it isn’t bad,” he said, almost confused by the absurdity of the question. “And I don’t see why you wouldn’t want to be with someone because of it. I mean, you like someone for who they are, not for what goes down in the bed room, you know? So of course there’d be people who’d stick with you regardless.”

He folded his arms over his chest, thinking about it longer. “Besides,” he admitted. “Who wouldn’t like good old generic cuddling? That’s the best, in my opinion.”

The boy held his gaze for a second, looking surprised, and then let out a small, relieved laugh. He glanced down, smiling, and casually tucked his hair behind his ear. “I see. Thank you.”

“Thank you?” Kuroo repeated.

“For the help,” he added hastily. “And, uh, saying some things my friend needed to hear.”

“Anytime. What’s your name?” Kuroo blurted, fearing the boy was about to get up and leave without anything else that Kuroo could remember him by. 

“Kozume…Kenma,” said the boy shyly, and then paused. “Do you really mean anytime?”

Kuroo blinked, and swallowed, throat feeling dry and heart pounding in his ears. “Yeah, I do.”

Kenma bit his lip, smiling softly, and then reached forward, grabbing a pen out of Kuroo’s uniform pocket. He flipped the book open to the table of contents and then extended it to Kuroo. “Can…can I have your number?”

“Of course,” Kuroo said, hoping his face didn’t look as heated as it felt. He scribbled his ten digits on the page and then paused, before handing his book over to Kenma.

Kenma blinked in confusion. “You too?”

“Yeah,” Kuroo said. “I think I’m going to buy the book, actually. It’s something I want to learn more about.”

Kenma smiled softly, and wrote something out on the pages, snapping the cover shut and handing it to Kuroo before making his way to his feet. “I have to go,” he admitted. “But I’m sure we’ll see each other again, Kuroo.”

And then he turned, leaving Kuroo a dazed and lovestruck (albeit now hopeful) mess on the aisle floor. And when Kuroo flipped open the book cover, later, when he was finishing his shift and scanning the barcode into the cash register, he saw and unmistakable ten digits and, beneath them:

thank you again. maybe coffee sometime? my friend would be interested.


	15. Yakulev

“Can I get you a drink? On the house?”

Yaku narrows his eyes at the tall bartender who’s currently leaning against the bar, smirking softly at him. A free drink sounds too good to be true, especially when his entire night’s been shit up until that point–what with Kuroo dragging him all the way out here only to meet some blonde kid and get swept away, leaving Yaku completely alone, out of his comfort zone, and, perhaps the most terrible thing of all: surrounded by tall people.

“What’s the catch?” he replies, warily eyeing the bartender. Lev, says his name tag, and Yaku can only try his best not to scowl and think, What kind of name is that?

The bartender–Lev–only smiles broader and shakes his head. "No catch,“ he assures. "You look like you’re having a rough night.” He seems to be the type of bounding energy (much like Bokuto, Kuroo’s friend) that Yaku has trouble dealing with, but, well. A free drink’s a free drink.

Yaku nods, slowly. "Alright,“ he allows, and watches Lev pull out a glass and some bottles. He takes his time with the drink, Yaku notes, which almost surprises Yaku, because he doesn’t look the type to really do anything carefully–at least, not by the hasty way his bowtie’s been fastened and his shirt half-tucked in. He pauses, watching Lev pour something white into the drink, and then asks, "Won’t you get in trouble for that, though?”

Lev smiles still, placing a small umbrella (one that seems awfully out of place) into the glass and then sliding it across the counter to Yaku. "Nope,“ he says brightly, and–shit, the lights are dim, did he just wink?

"Oh,” mutters Yaku, clearing his throat and feeling his cheeks heat slightly. He wraps his fist around the cool glass, feeling his knuckles strain from tension.

Lev waits a moment longer, looking as if he wants to watch Yaku’s first sip for his reaction, but he leaves as another patron walks up to the bar and summons him. Yaku lets his eyes follow Lev as he walks, all gangly and tall, leaning against the bar with that ever-cheerful smile as he takes the next order. He sips, slowly, reveling in the sweetness of his drink (though, for image’s sake, he’d never tell Kuroo how sweet he likes things), and watches as cute smiles are exchanged and the patron laughs at something Lev has said. Yaku resists the urge to roll his eyes at the melodrama, knowing that, despite the booming of the laugh, whatever it was couldn’t have been that funny.

Lev turns to tidy up some glasses, and the patron leaves a scribbled-on napkin on the counter before leaving with his drink. Yaku stares with boredom at that napkin, sipping away at his drink, and is startled when he senses the presence of another and looks up to see Lev across the counter, hunched over slightly as he rests his arms on the wood. 

“Is it good?” he asks.

Yaku frowns. "Yes,“ he admits. "What is it?”

Lev laughs a little, tilting his head back to reveal the smooth, pale column of his throat. Yaku wonders briefly what he’d look like in only that crooked bowtie, and then curses his brain for its intrusiveness. 

“House secret,” says Lev, tapping a finger to his lips. "Can’t say.“

Yaku glances down at his drink, swallowing the dryness in his throat. "I think that guy was flirting with you,” he then says, and points at the napkin. "Left you something.“

Lev blinks in surprise, and then grins a bit sheepishly. "Yeah, probably,” he says.

Probably? Yaku narrows his eyes. Who is he to be so cocky? He frowns. "Aren’t you going to get that napkin?“

Lev waves a hand, standing straighter and rubbing the back of his neck with that stupid goofy grin still plastered on his face. He stares at the napkin for a moment and then collects it, folding it neatly before depositing it in the trash bin.

"Wha–” begins Yaku.

“It’s no bother,” interrupts Lev, and takes Yaku’s empty glass from him. His fingers brush against Yaku’s, long and slim but sturdy, causing an unnecessary shiver to run down Yaku’s spine. He pauses, glass in hand, meeting Yaku’s gaze dead-on. "Besides, I like short guys.“

Yaku’s eyebrow twitches as Lev steps back and goes to wash the glass. "What the fuck did you call me?" 

Lev glances over his shoulder and cocks his head to the side in confusion. "I called you short,” he says, smiling. "It’s cute.“

"Oh my God,” says Yaku, disbelieving. He places his palms flat against the counter, shaking his head and standing. "I can’t– Oh my God, I’m done.“

Lev grins and then slides a glass across the counter, familiar white concoction glimmering under the low lighting. 

Yaku pauses, staring at the drink, and then slowly–ruefully–takes a seat.

"What’s your name?” asks Lev, resting his chin on one of his palms and blinking slowly over at Yaku. Yaku notes that those half-lidded eyes are a surprising green. 

“Yaku,” he mutters, grumpily sipping from his drink. "Where are you from? Your name–“

Lev grins, pointing a thumb into his chest. "I’m from Russia,” he declares proudly.

“You’re–” begins Yaku, gaze fluttering down to his drink. Oh, he thinks, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at what must be a terrible joke. "Ah. A White Russian.“

Lev laughs again, lightly tapping his palm against the counter. "I’m glad you got it, Yaku-san. It’s good, right? You like it?”

Yaku takes a deep breath for the sake of his own self-control. "Yes, Lev,“ he grumbles.

"Good, good, but you know what?” Lev’s grin takes on a more crooked look as he leans forward and whispers, “I think I’d taste better. And if you left a napkin, y'know, I wouldn’t throw that one away.”

Yaku feels himself suddenly overcome by a terribly frustrating urge to smack Lev and a–possibly more frustrating–urge to grab him by that annoyingly badly-tied bowtie and kiss him senseless until maybe he shuts up and Yaku’s name is the only thing he can think to say.

But Yaku manages, just barely, to hold back both urges and instead sends his most withering glare in Lev’s direction. 

Lev only smiles, unfazed. "I work until morning,“ he supplies helpfully. "But I’m free tomorrow.”

Yaku finishes the rest of his drink and rolls his eyes, trying to ignore how red his cheeks must be as he hisses, “Just get me another drink, Lev.”

Lev laughs his infuriating laugh and smiles his infuriating smile and, an hour later, when Kuroo finally stumbles back to him and demands they go (“Now, I may or may not have pissed off someone we don’t want pissed off.”), Yaku attempts to ignore Lev’s self-satisfied coo of “Oh, Yaku-san, is this a napkin I see?” as he makes his leave.


	16. Daisuga

Daichi wakes to find an empty bed a few hours past midnight, the blankets disheveled and bedroom door open. Of course, he thinks as he makes his way to the kitchen, finding Suga standing in the glow of the refrigerator door with a hand on his hip. It’s not unusual for Suga to be up so late (not unusual for him to never want to wake up before noon, either), so Daichi simply laughs and leans against the doorframe, watching.

“Hungry?”

Suga looks up at the sound of his voice, hand pressed to his chest. “You scared me.” He pauses. “But, yes, quite.”

“Perfect,” Daichi replies and reaches on top of the fridge for a tin that he’d hidden there that morning (knowing that, if Suga discovered any of the muffins Daichi’d made, they wouldn’t be there by now), and handing it over to his delightfully surprised boyfriend.

It takes two minutes for Suga to devour three. Daichi can do nothing but watch.

“Mm,” Suga groans, and speaks over a mouthful of muffin. “God, Daichi, how do you even make these things? Y’know, screw wedding cakes. When I get married, all I want to have is a thousand of these muffins.”

He looks so content then, hair sticking up at odd angles and crumbs sticking to his cheeks as he throws Daichi a tender smile, and all Daichi can think is—

“Marry me, then.”

Suga falls silent, his chewing slowly coming to a stop. He swallows, and his eyes sweep upwards, wide and bright underneath the kitchen lights. It’s around that time that Daichi’s mind catches up to his mouth, and his jaw slackens as he stares at Suga with cautious eyes, knowing full well that it’s too late to take that back and that there’s no way he could play it off (“I, uh, said carry me.”). So he stares.

“Did you—?” Suga begins, and then pauses. A small smile finds its way to his lips, and he looks down at the muffin. “Daichi, did you just propose?”

“Shit,” Daichi says. He covers his face with one hand. Takes a breath. Feels his heart in his throat. Climbs off of his chair. “Okay, wait, no, that’s not how I meant to do this. Wait, let me try again.” And this is certainly not how he planned for his night to go, certainly not what he had expected to just blurt out like, “Suga, I know it’s two in the morning and you’re not wearing pants, but hey, marry me?”

As he sinks to his knee, the teasing smile slowly slides off of Suga’s face until Suga’s staring at him once more with a look of pure surprise.

“Look, Koushi, I…” Daichi finds it hard to look at Suga’s face as he speaks so instead stares at the shrimp in the middle of his t-shirt. “We’ve been together for a long time. Back in high school, when we first started out and I was terrified that we would somehow mess up and ruin things, and end up ruining our friendship, you told me that you’d be here for me, no matter what, because you were mine and I was yours. And I want to be here for you like that. I want to be able to call you mine,”—Daichi pauses, swallows, and looks up to meet Suga’s eyes—“for a whole lifetime.”

Suga takes a shaky breath, slowly lifting his hand to cover his mouth. Daichi’s eyes widen, and he continues on hastily. “I know I’m no good with words, and I’m sorry, but… When we were younger and talked about forever, all I could think about was having you in it. And even now, when I wake up in the morning next to you and when I watch you smile and when I hold your hand in mine and when I just get to be a part of your life everyday, I know that this is what I want. Having you in my future is simply a necessity. So, Sugawara Koushi…if you will, would you be my forever?”

Suga lets out a steady stream of breath, blinking rapidly and nodding his head. He climbs down off of his chair and into Daichi’s arms, hugging him tightly and pressing his face into Daichi’s neck. Daichi closes his eyes, trying to steady his heart, and laughs nervously, twining his fingers in Suga’s hair.

“Yes,” whispers Suga, nodding again. He pulls back, framing Daichi’s face with his fingers, and presses a kiss to Daichi’s forehead. “Yes. Yes.”

Daichi reaches a hand out to wipe the tears from his cheeks. “I love you.”

A tearful laugh bubbles up in Suga’s throat, and he kisses Daichi slowly and softly. “I love you too.”


	17. Bokuaka

“Bokuto-san,” begins Keiji, shattering the silence filling the room. He puts his book on his lap, glancing over at Bokuto, who had been shuffling nervously at the foot of the bed for the past five minutes. "Is there a problem?“

Bokuto shakes his head rigorously, sending his shower-damp bangs across his forehead. "Sorry, I’ll stop,” he assures, resting his cheek on his palm. He smiles sheepishly, and nods his head towards Keiji’s book. "Go back to reading.“

Keiji pauses, fingering his bookmark and frowning slightly. "Why are you up so late? You have a class tomorrow morning at eight, you know. I don’t want you forgetting again.”

“Not tired,” says Bokuto quickly, eyes wide.

“What time is it?” Keiji asks absently, ignoring him and looking around for the clock. "If it’s as late as I think it is, you’re going to–“

"It’s not that late,” assures Bokuto hastily, reaching out a hand to grab Keiji’s. Keiji blinks, eyes not finding the clock, and turns back to Bokuto. At the sight of Bokuto’s wide eyes, gold practically glittering under the bedside lamp, he sighs and allows a small smile, gently brushing the hair back from Bokuto’s forehead.

Bokuto hums and leans into the touch, before continuing, “Besides, waking up early isn’t a problem for me. You, on the other hand…”

He laughs as Keiji swats him lightly. "I don’t like mornings,“ says Keiji, as if to defend himself.

"You don’t like mornings?” Bokuto repeats, leaning closer with eyebrows raised. "Akaashi, I don’t think you’ve seen a morning in years.“

Keiji rolls his eyes, opening his book and burying his nose in the pages. "Mornings are awful, and I’m more productive at night anyways, Bokuto-san. I don’t see why it’s necessary to wake up early.”

Bokuto’s laugh is breezy, like air, and Keiji can feel himself relaxing into the sound and the feeling of Bokuto’s arm resting on his legs. But his laugh cuts off suddenly, and he says, quickly, “I’ll be right back.”

Keiji lowers his book in time to see Bokuto swing his legs over the side of the bed and then stride out of the room, steps hurried and quiet. Frowning slightly, Keiji eventually shrugs off his confusion and turns back to his book.

His attention is, unsurprisingly, short-lived, because hardly five minutes have passed before the door is being nudged open and a flicker of light catches Keiji’s eye. He drops the book onto the bed as Bokuto takes a seat beside him, hands carefully cupping a single cupcake with one flickering candle. His grin is hesitant but proud as he extends the cupcake towards Keiji, and says, “Happy birthday.”

Keiji’s eyes flicker once over to the clock, which reads five past midnight. He blinks once, in a mixture of surprise and bubbly happiness, before turning back to Bokuto with a smile. "Thank you,“ he whispers.

Bokuto hums in response. "I got to be first this year, didn’t I? Didn’t I? That’s what I was trying for, since Kenma beat me last year after I fell asleep.” He notes Keiji’s expression and panics. "Akaashi? Are you okay? Oh no, don’t cry! I didn’t–did someone beat me? Is that it? I tried really hard this time!“

Keiji shakes his head rapidly, attempting to wipe at the tears betraying him. "No,” he says sincerely. "Please calm down, Bokuto-san. You were first. I’m just…quite happy.“

Bokuto’s smile brights up the room better than any candle could, and he holds the cupcake up to Keiji’s face. "The candle is melting, Akaashi. You’ve gotta make a wish, okay?”

Keiji nods once, knowing his wish will be the same one he’s had from all the past years that he’s known Bokuto, and blows the candle out. When Bokuto cheers a loud hoot and reaches to hand Keiji the cupcake, making a bashful explanation of, “There were twelve cupcakes, that I tried to make, but this is the only one that actually wasn’t burnt,” Keiji cuts him off with a kiss.

“Whoa,” breathes Bokuto, blinking dazedly as if it isn’t the hundredth, or even thousandth, time that Keiji has kissed him. Keiji’s cheeks burn. 

“What did you wish for, Akaashi?” queries Bokuto, pressing a kiss to both of Keiji’s reddening cheeks. 

“I’m not supposed to tell you,” murmurs Keiji.

“But if you were supposed to tell me, what would you say?”

Keiji bites back a smile, letting his eyes drop to their intertwined fingers, the silver of his ring flashing in the dim light. "I would say that I wish for just…this, to keep going for another year. And next year, I’ll wish the same.“


	18. Kuroken

“You look a little lost, kitten.”

Kenma startles, shifting uncomfortably until the flat wood of the bar is digging into his spine. There are guys beside him–guys that, as far as he’s concerned, hadn’t been there two minutes ago when Kuroo had left to go find some drinks.

“Yeah, what’s a pretty thing like you doing at a place like this?” croons the other, veering close–too close.

Kenma’s cheeks heat up from proximity, from embarrassment, perhaps a bit from fear. He shakes his head, clearing his throat. "I came here with someone,“ he says. Go away is his underlying tone, that he knows. He’s worked ages on perfecting that tone.

“Sure you did,” says the first, leaning his forearm against the bar and effectively caging Kenma in. Kenma swings his gaze wide, hunching his shoulders in an attempt to shrink away.

He hears a throat clearing somewhere beyond the wide birth of the second guy’s shoulders, and before he can even blink, the two of them are gone, making hasty excuses and then scurrying away into the dense crowd of the dance floor. The presence to his right is soon replaced with a familiar body, two drinks extended in his fists.

“You came back,” Kenma states, eyes wide. He sighs softly, accepting the drink and then allowing himself a breath to calm down.

Kuroo laughs slightly, confusion evident in his tone. "You don’t need to sound so relieved,“ he informs Kenma, taking a sip of his own drink.

Kenma frowns, staring down at the pink in his own drink. Something sweet; Kuroo knows he likes it that way, hates bitter things. He thinks about the hasty dismissal, and raises an eyebrow. "They left as soon as you showed up,” he murmurs slowly.

Kuroo’s laugh dissolves into a bated breath. "Oh?“ he asks, so casually that Kenma almost believes he’s innocent.

"Did you say something to them, Kuroo?” he accuses, eyes narrowed slightly as he takes a sip.

Kuroo barks out a laugh nervously. He makes a shushing sound, then, like Kenma’s ridiculous for thinking so. "What? Why would I–“

"Kuroo.”

Kuroo shuts up good, taking a sip from his drink. He clears his throat then, reaching a hand out to twirl a strand of Kenma’s hair absentmindedly between his fingers. "Ah, well…I may have told them to back off,“ he mutters, gaze flicking upward to Kenma’s. "Earlier. When I went to the bathroom and came back to see you dancing, and they were watching. So I…” He waves a hand vaguely, making an embarrassed face. "I mildly threatened them. Just a little. It’s not a big deal.“

Thank you, Kenma thinks. He sighs, flicking Kuroo’s cheek, and mutters, "Stop causing problems,” before leaning up on his tiptoes to press a quick kiss to Kuroo’s cheek.

Kuroo blinks, face slowly turning redder. Then, suddenly, he breaks into a dazzling grin, laughing lightly. "You don’t need to say thank you,“ he tells Kenma, tucking the strand of hair behind his ear.

Kenma frowns, glancing down. "I’m not.”

“You are,” Kuroo insists. "But you don’t have to.“

"Am not.”

Kuroo’s smile makes him forget his agitation, his fear, his discomfort. And so when Kuroo protests, one last time, “It’s okay. I know how you feel,” he takes Kuroo’s hand in his and nestles up against Kuroo’s chest.

Maybe he hadn’t said it out loud. But Kuroo knows. He always does.


	19. Daisuga

“Daichi, can we get ice cream?”

“Yeah, we can–” Agreeing with Suga is something that’s always come naturally, so Daichi has to take a moment to realize the absurdity of his question. He frowns and corrects himself. "Wait, what? No. What are you– Suga, it’s the middle of December. We’re not getting ice cream.“

Suga’s eyes widen, as if he’s surprised that Daichi would dare disagree. "What?” he asks softly, voice muffled beneath his scarf. "Why not?“

Daichi waves his gloved hand in front of them as they walk, gesturing at the white puffs of breath that float out with each exhale and rise upwards. "It’s probably thirty degrees. How could we get ice cream?”

Suga hums, side-eyeing Daichi from over the top of his scarf. Daichi knows that look well, and knows that if the scarf wasn’t covering half of Suga’s face, he’d see those soft lips curved into a pout. 

“I just thought you’d be in a festive spirit,” says Suga innocently, and then shrugs, burying his hands in his pockets. "Guess I was wrong.“

"Ice cream isn’t festive,” Daichi protests, fighting a losing battle.

“You love kakigori in summer festivals,” points out Suga.

“Summer festivals,” reminds Daichi, and then sighs. He resists the urge to reach a hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose like he does when frustrated with Nishinoya and Tanaka. "We can get ice cream.“

Suga’s eyes crinkle around the edges as he looks at Daichi, and he reaches out, grabbing Daichi’s hand within his own. "I love you,” he teases.

“Yeah, I know,” mutters Daichi, rolling his eyes. "You also love that I am a poor, weak-willed soul, don’t you? Who can’t say no to ice cream in the middle of Winter?“

Suga laughs, loud and tinkling, like the Christmas bells that have been playing over the radio since the start of the month. He steps closer, looping his arm around Daichi’s elbow and patting his bicep comfortingly. "I’ll keep you warm, don’t worry.”

“Oh?” Daichi raises an eyebrow, smiling down at Suga and watching snowflakes catch in his long eyelashes. 

Suga nods sincerely, reaching a hand up to unwind one end of his scarf and drape it over Daichi’s shoulder. "See?“ he says, tugging on the other end for extra effort, to make sure it loops comfortably enough around Daichi’s neck. "Warm yet?”

Daichi lips quirk upwards into a lopsided smirk. "Not really, no. Quite freezing, actually.“

Suga’s gaze shifts from the scarf to Daichi’s face, and he scoffs at Daichi’s choice expression, clearly picking up on something unvoiced. "Mmhmm, of course you aren’t. Well, we’re not going home until we get ice cream, I hope you know that.” 

His eyes twinkle, as if laughing at his own comment, and his gaze lowers a fraction. Suga’s face lights up in a smile as he wraps the scarf in his fist and tugs, pulling Daichi into a kiss slow and soft.

When he pulls back, eyes wide and sparkling under the stores’ Christmas lights, cheeks flushed and and glittering with snowflakes, Daichi thinks he’s never been so in love.

“Warm enough?” asks Suga.

“Yeah,” Daichi whispers, leaning forward to kiss him again. "I think so.“


	20. Iwaoi

Hajime makes the mistake of leaving his phone on the table one day during lunch as he goes to get another water bottle, and it isn’t until later, when he’s home, that he discovers the plethora of selfies taken by Hanamaki, Matsukawa, and Oikawa that are filling up his memory.  It wouldn’t be so bad, Hajime thinks, if Oikawa didn’t go the extra step to make one of his selfies Hajime’s phone background.  

He would change it, he knows he would, but it’s not even one of Oikawa’s typical selfies that he always sends to Hajime “for approval.”  No, there’s no fake and polite smile, no perfectly polished hair, no perfect lighting and angle.  Oikawa is, instead, laughing, his eyes crinkled almost shut.  Hanamaki’s–no, maybe it’s Matsukawa’s–hand is messing up Oikawa’s hair, and the usual straight, perfected peace sign is bent at the fingers, nearly forgotten, as he makes an attempt to move it.

Hajime swallows.  He changes his lock screen to a picture of Godzilla, and tries to ignore the tightness in his chest as his home screen goes unchanged.

* * *

  
“Iwa-chan, can I borrow your phone?” calls Oikawa, running up behind him after practice and swinging his bag up over his shoulder.

Hajime hums.  "What for?“

"I have to pick up Takeru later, so I want to double-check the time with Nii-san,” explains Oikawa, running a hand through his hair and making an annoyed face.  "Makki and Mattsun were playing this stupid game during the water breaks and now my phone is dead.“

There’s a slight falter in Oikawa’s smile as he explains, so Hajime narrows his eyes in suspicion, but he can’t figure out what’s weird.

"Yeah, fine,” allows Hajime at last, fishing into his bag and handing Oikawa his phone.

Oikawa throws him a beaming grin and then holds up a finger, stepping aside to go make the call.  Hajime isn’t sure how long it will take–figuring, it can’t be _that_ long, can it?–so he makes his way over to the nearest bench and takes a seat, feeling like something is slipping his mind but not being able, for the love of God, to remember what it is.

And so he sits there, staring at the ground and bearing a scowl that Oikawa will most definitely make fun of him for, until he hears Oikawa say goodbye and hang up the phone and then it’s quiet for a second, before a breathless, “Iwa-chan…?” hits his ears and everything clicks into place.

His gaze snaps up in a split second to see Oikawa staring at his cellphone screen, lips slightly parted in what must be surprise.

 _Oh_ , he thinks, and then, _This is bad._  There’s no excuse he’s planned, nothing on the top of his head to simply pull out and give him a reason for having kept the picture from a week ago as his background.  There _is_ no reason, really, aside from the fact that Oikawa is really pretty and he’s found recently that he really _, really_ likes looking at him.

“I liked the–” he starts, mind scrambling.  He likes the what?  The lighting?  Matsukawa’s hand?  They’re all bullshit, he knows, and so he lamely finishes, “–picture.”

Oikawa blinks, and glances up at Hajime with wide eyes.  "You did?“ He pauses, voice sounding tiny.  "You never like my other ones.”

Hajime rolls his eyes, feeling his cheeks burn as he scowls at the ground.  "It’s not fake like all the other ones, okay?“

Oikawa’s silent for a moment that’s too long and gives Hajime too much time to overthink himself.  Reevaluating his sexuality is a problem that’s started occurring far too often in the Post-Selfie Era, and he really, truly doesn’t want to delve that deep into the recesses of his mind at the moment.

But Oikawa is unknowingly merciful and instead laughs–a real one, not one of those stupid giggles for girls or those even stupider faux-intimidating chuckles for other teams.  He plops down on the bench next to Hajime, pulling out his own phone and placing it in Hajime’s hand.  Hajime stares down at his long fingers, just barely brushing his palm, and at the alien charm Hajime’d bought him for a birthday years ago.

"If you’re going to have me as your background, I want to have you as my background,” says Oikawa, face earnest but voice shy.

Hajime blinks.  He laughs a bit embarrassedly, shaking his head and pushing the phone back into Oikawa’s hand.  “No _way_ ,” he says.  “I’m not taking a selfie on your phone.  That’s–way too weird.”

Oikawa rolls his eyes.  “Alright, you brute, then we’ll take a photo together.”

And then he’s pushing Hajime aside slightly, one arm extending his phone and the other wrapping around Hajime’s shoulder, peace sign leveled next to Hajime’s cheek.  

Hajime frowns, swatting the peace sign down.  “If we’re taking this, then we’re not doing any of this stupid posing, okay?  We’re taking a genuine one.”

Oikawa’s eyes widen, and Hajime watches the long column of his throat as he swallows.  “Okay,” he says softly, after a moment, and drops the peace sign to instead let his hand rest against Hajime’s shoulder.

Hajime nods quickly, steeling himself and attempting to ignore the rapid _thump-thump_  in his chest.  He whips his gaze away from Oikawa, staring firmly into the camera extended before him, and forces himself to take a deep breath, and then–

He smiles.  Oikawa smiles, too–the genuine kind that Hajime really loves to look at–and then there’s a slight blur in the camera.  Hajime feels something warm and soft pressing against his cheek and then he clears a click and the flash goes off, blinding him.

He blinks away the stars, face heating up, and turns to Oikawa with insults ready on his tongue.  But he stops when he sees another smile–one that might be even _better_  than the one in his wallpaper, one that he definitely could get used to.

Oikawa laughs breathlessly, maybe a bit nervously, and then shows Hajime the picture.  It’s himself, eyes widened a bit in surprise, with a smile almost slipping into a look of confusion.  And Oikawa, sitting beside him, lips pressed against his cheek.

“I think I like this one,” says Oikawa, setting it as his wallpaper.

Hajime swallows back the insults.  He scowls, attempting to ignore his blush, and instead snatches away Oikawa’s phone, typing out a picture message to himself.

“Yeah.  I like it too.”

 

* * *

“Wait. Wasn’t your phone dead?”

“Ah, ha, ha.  Um, you see, not _exactly_ –”

“Oikawa!”

“OW!  Mean, Iwa-chan!  Mean, mean!”


	21. Iwaoi

“Iwa-chan, Iwa-chan!”

Oikawa’s stage whisper is loud, and dramatic, and really terrible.  Hajime scowls, raising an eyebrow and glancing at his friend, half-hidden in the kitchen doorway with a hand cupped over his mouth.  He’s not even sure why Oikawa is hiding; the rest of the team is currently arguing over whose turn it is in Sorry! and not paying any attention to the other two whatsoever.  In fact, even if they were, they’re a team.  Who the hell would care if Oikawa wants to hide in the kitchen doing God-knows-what unless…

Hajime blinks, face morphing into a scowl.  Unless he’s scheming something.  He sighs, putting down his cup on the couch-side table and following Oikawa into the kitchen.

“What do you want now?”

Oikawa shushes him, waving a hand in annoyance, but the shush itself is louder than Hajime’s question.  "Iwa-chan, do you wanna maybe do me an itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny favor?“  He gives Hajime a grin that’s like liquid sugar, all hopeful and sweet.

Hajime squints.  "Are you drunk?”

A burp escapes Oikawa’s lips before he slaps a hand over his mouth, shaking his head rapidly.  

“Oh my God,” says Hajime.  He shakes his head in disbelief, repeating, “Oh my God.  Okay, you know what?  No.  I’m not participating in any more of your drunken schemes.  After what happened last time–and yes, Oikawa, I still have nightmares about the places that sand went–”

“But _Iwa_ ,” groans Oikawa, hands flying out and fastening to Hajime’s wrists.  He shakes them lightly, mouth curled into a delicate little pout.  " _Please_.“

“No way!” Hajime insists, and then glances around the dark kitchen, quieting his voice before continuing, “Do you realize that your plans are literally the worst, Oikawa?  Do you?”

“You don’t even know what I want to do!” protests Oikawa, face morphing into indignant shock.

Hajime rolls his eyes.  "Alright, what is it this time?“

Adopting a guiltier expression, Oikawa taps his index fingers together.  A nervous laugh bubbles out of his mouth, and he admits, quieter than any of his other whispers, "I wanted to get Kyoutani and Yahaba together by midnight.”

There’s a giant slam somewhere out in the living room, followed by the scream of, “ _Sorry?_ I’ll show you sorry!” and then five voices ring out in distress.  

Hanamaki’s head peeks out in the doorway to the kitchen, eyes immediately scouring the room for Oikawa and Hajime.  He offers a polite, tired, and maybe even tipsy grin at the sight.  "Kyoutani flipped the game board again,“ he informs the two of them.  "Damage control?”

Hajime puts a hand to his head, sighing.  "Yeah, I got it.  Be there in a sec.“

Hanamaki’s head disappears back around the corner, and when Hajime turns back to Oikawa, he narrows his eyes at the look of satisfaction.

"What’s with your face?" 

Oikawa scoffs, undeterred.  "What better way to get him to calm down than to provide him with something he likes?  Dogs love treats.”

“ _Or_ he flips out and kills Yahaba?”

“ _Or_ he doesn’t.  C'mon, Iwa-chan, trust me!  I’m like an expert at these kinds of things, and you should see the way Kyoutani looks at him.  He’s _totally_ crushing.”  Oikawa nods in firm belief of his words.

Hajime raises an eyebrow, debating.  If Oikawa was as good as he claims he is at noting when people like people, then Hajime figures he wouldn’t even be in this mess; having a stupid crush on your best friend gives one a bias, after all.  Maybe he wouldn’t even agree to the stupid scheme if he didn’t really, secretly want to please Oikawa.

His breath escapes him in a resigned sigh.

“We’ve got thirty minutes until midnight.  I’ve got Kyoutani; You get Yahaba.”

 

* * *

 

“So,” Hajime starts awkwardly after the Sorry! game is carefully reassembled and put away (somewhere far from the reaches of their poorly short-tempered underclassmen), taking a seat next to Kyoutani on the couch.  "You, uh.  How’s it going, Kyoutani?“

Kyoutani bristles, eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion, as if he expects Oikawa to automatically be anywhere that Hajime is.  However, upon spotting Oikawa across the room, excitedly chattering with Yahaba about something, he relaxes a tad.  "Iwaizumi,” he greets.  "I’m bored out of my mind.“

"Oh, come on, it’s the last day of the year.  Celebrating is…mandatory, I guess.”  Hajime clears his throat, turning to Matsukawa.  "Get me a drink, will you?“

Matsukawa raises an eyebrow but says nothing, rising and making his way to the kitchen.

"Um, sure,” replies Kyoutani, growing more confused by the second.

“Right. So” –Hajime mouths _Thank you_ as Matsukawa returns, two drinks in tow, and hands one to Hajime– “You know how the New Year’s traditions go, right?  What happens at midnight?”  He takes a swig of the drink, wincing at the burn and praying that maybe it’d get to him a bit faster.  He is way too sober to be having this conversation.

“What happens at midnight,” Kyoutani repeats in a deadpan.

“Like, it’s good luck to kiss someone at midnight.  Bringing in the new year, you know.”  Hajime desperately takes another swig, wishing to be anywhere but there at that current moment. He’s seriously going to kill Oikawa if this giant scheme doesn’t work out.  "Got anyone in mind?“ 

Kyoutani stares at him in silence for a long moment, before scooting just a bit away from him.  Hajime doesn’t fail to note the dusting of red on his cheeks as he mutters, "Uh, are you hitting on me?”

He chokes on his drink, bursting into a series of coughs.  "Oh, God,“ he splutters, losing all will for subtlety.  "God, _no_ , I was talking about _Yahaba_.”

Kyoutani’s eyes widen, face growing a dozen shades darker as he scowls and hisses, “Y-Yahaba?  What the _fuck_?”

Hajime rolls his eyes.  The denial.  It kills him.  "Yes, Yahaba.  Look, I was trying to be subtle about all this, but, uh.  Oikawa thinks– _noticed_ that you like him.  And Yahaba…likes you too?“  He throws a glance across the room, hoping that Oikawa’s conversation with Yahaba is going even slightly better than his own.  "And so, you should definitely kiss him at midnight.”

Kyoutani scowls.  "There is no fucking way that I am–“

"I’ll challenge you.”

That shuts him up for a second.  Kyoutani tilts his head, considering.  "Challenge me to what?“

Hajime scans the room, desperate for a solution.  He is _not_ doing another drinking challenge, not after that one Halloween party, and there is no way he’s going to try to out-dare Kyoutani after the nerves of steel he’d demonstrated at one of their post-game hangouts.  And then he sees it.  The one solution to all his problems.

"If I beat you at Just Dance, you have to do it.  If you beat me, you can forget about everything and then go punch Oikawa.”

Kyoutani’s eyes brighten.  "Deal.“

 

* * *

 

"How’d it go?”

An arm is thrown across his shoulders at the same time that the loud whisper reaches his ear, hot breath tickling the skin near his cheek.  Hajime sighs and glances over at Oikawa, who’s currently sipping from one of his who-knows-how-many drinks and watching Hanamaki and Matsukawa play a game of stix.

Hajime directs his gaze towards Kyoutani, who stands somewhat awkwardly in the corner perhaps two feet away from Yahaba, fists clenched by his sides.  "I should be asking you that.  We’ve got like two minutes to correct any terrible mistakes you might have made before Yahaba punches Kyoutani and all hell breaks loose.“

Oikawa titters, throwing his head back in amusement.  "So mean, Iwa-chan!  I can’t believe you still doubt me.”

Hajime rolls his eyes.  "I can’t believe Yahaba listened to you while you’re drunk off your ass.“

Oikawa’s lips twitch upwards into a coy grin.  "And I can’t believe you can dance like that.”

Hajime blinks, brain unable to form a response.  He stares at Oikawa, feeling his face heat up, and then forces himself to look elsewhere–hey, that card tower that Watari is building is getting pretty high, isn’t it?

Kunimi, who’s sitting on the couch with his legs lazily draped across Kindaichi’s lap, grabs the television remote and turns up the volume, directing everyone’s attention to the screen.  

“Ten!" 

Everyone perks up, immediately losing focus on whatever they’d been doing to instead focus in on the closing of the year.  

"Nine!”

Matsukawa and Hanamaki’s fingers curl downward, game completely forgotten. 

“Eight!”

Watari looks away and the card tower crumbles.  

“Seven!”

Kyoutani take a small step closer to Yahaba, still avoiding eye contact.

“Six!”

Kindaichi straightens, nudging Kunimi gently, his face a mixture of poorly-concealed excitement and apprehension, and gets a soft smile in return.

“Five!”

Oikawa snickers, likely laughing at his one of his own jokes, and places his drink down on the table in exchange for draping his arms around Hajime’s waist.

“Four!”

Yahaba glances over at Kyoutani and then away again, taking his own step closer, until their hands are barely brushing by their sides.

“Three!”

Oikawa whispers in Hajime’s ear again, asking if he’d seen that, if that proves his plan was great all along, if Hajime will admit that he was wrong.

“Two!”

Hajime flicks his ear in response.

“One!”

The room erupts into cheers, miniature forms of celebration breaking out.  There are hugs and high-fives and words wishing congratulatory messages, but Hajime and Oikawa keep their gazes directed at one point in the room.  It happens quickly; Kyoutani and Yahaba finally turn to face each other, and then _Kyoutani_ appears to freeze.  However, Yahaba frowns and rolls his eyes, lips forming words that Hajime can’t hear, and then– They’re kissing, and Oikawa’s squealing, excitedly glancing between them and Hajime.

“It worked, it worked, Iwa-chan, tell me I’m right, tell me I’m right,” Oikawa crows, giggling maniacally, the alcohol likely making everything a whole lot funnier than it really is.

But Hajime finds himself smiling despite himself, watching Kyoutani stare in dumbfounded awe at Yahaba after they separate.  Oikawa _was_ right, and he doesn’t want to admit that, but turns out even Kyoutani can be calmed by something he likes.

He sighs, glancing over at Oikawa.  "You were right.“

Oikawa grins, expression all full of satisfied gloating until, suddenly, it’s not.  A couple bangs echo throughout the room, and Hajime can only watch as Oikawa glances up and around them as the confetti from Matsukawa and Hanamaki’s poppers rain down on them, face full of childlike delight. 

"Happy New Year!”

Oikawa laughs, arms around Hajime’s waist tightening into something much more similar to a hug. Hajime swallows.  He thinks on it for a moment–maybe a moment is too generous, because it’s more like a second–and then decides, _Fuck it_.

Oikawa’s face is only inches away as-is, so it takes no more than a second (which isn’t even long enough for regret, Hajime figures) to close the distance between them and press his lips against Oikawa’s in the way that he’d been wanting for a long, long time.  A noise that’s some mixture between a sigh and a hum escapes Oikawa’s mouth as Hajime surges forward, hand gently supporting his lower back.

And Oikawa kisses him back, too–for much longer than he’d ever hoped for going into this decision.  He kisses him back until Hajime can’t ignore the whoops and hollers (Hanamaki), the low whistle (Matsukawa), and the flustered whisper of “ _Guys!_ It’s rude to watch!” (Kindaichi).  But he ignores them all, and when they pull apart, he doesn’t even care to have been seen.

Oikawa takes a long moment before he opens his eyes again, a slow and lazy grin growing on his lips.  "What was that?“ he whispers, breathless.

"Good luck,” Hajime replies, voice light but rich with the implications of words not quite said.

A giggle bubbles out of Oikawa’s throat, and slaps a hand over his mouth to conceal it.  Shaking his head, he pulls Hajime back into a tight hug, poorly-concealed mirth evident in the giggles and quivering of his back.  "That was really cheesy,“ he accuses.  "But I couldn’t think of a better way to start the year.”


	22. Iwaoi

“How do I ask Matsukawa out?” asks Hanamaki, slamming his lunch on the table with a sense of urgency.

Hajime stops his eating, glancing up at the same time as Oikawa doubles over in a series of coughs.  It takes two solid pats to Oikawa’s back and a stolen swig of Hajime’s water before Oikawa spits out, “Sorry?”

Hanamaki rolls his eyes.  “You two are the gayest people I know, so I figured I could go to you for advice, yeah?”  Then, quietly, he admits, “Actually, Oikawa’s the gayest, and Iwaizumi told me you were great at romantic advice, so.  Here I am.”

Hajime ducks his head into his shoulder to hide his grin.  He disguises his laughter in a cough, clearing his throat and then glancing back up at Hanamaki.  “Matsukawa definitely likes you.  It’ll be fine,“ he assures.

“Yeah, you both have that same hideous sense of humor,” supplies Oikawa.

“Well, yeah, but—“  Hanamaki bites his lip, glancing down.  It’s the most nervous Hajime’s ever seen him.  “I can be worried too, about if he’ll say no.”

“He wouldn’t.”  Hajime glances at Oikawa for support, and they both nod once at each other, then again at Hanamaki.

Still, Hanamaki seems wary.  “You don’t know—“

“Well, Makki-chan,” interrupts Oikawa with a smack of his lips.  "You only live once means that you only die once.“

Hanamaki raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.  "Is that supposed to comfort me?”

“Yes?” Oikawa’s brows furrow, and he looks at Hajime for confirmation.  "Am I the only one who thought that was helpful advice?“

Hajime sighs, turning to Hanamaki.  "I think he’s trying to imply that you should just go for it, because what’s the worst that could happen?”

“I could die, apparently,” deadpans Hanamaki.

“Well–”  Hajime shakes his head, sending Oikawa a glare.  "I mean, seriously?  I can’t even defend this one.“

“I thought it made sense!” protests Oikawa with his hands thrown in the air.

Hajime rolls his eyes.  "Alright, whatever, dumbass.“  He turns back to Hanamaki, ignoring Oikawa’s offended squeak.  "You’ll be fine.”

Hanamaki nods.  “So I’m just supposed to wing it and everything will be fine.  Awesome.”

“No, no,” butts in Oikawa, waving a hand.  “Make it more dramatic!  Bring him so many flowers that he falls over!  Matsukawa loves that kind of stuff! Er, well, most people love that kind of stuff, so why wouldn’t he?”

“Because Matsukawa isn’t everybody?”  Hanamaki sighs, and tilts his head towards Hajime.  “I can’t believe you told me he was actually good at romantic advice.”

Hajime shrugs, hiding a grin behind the palm of his hand and calmly observing as Oikawa flails around, placing a hand to his heart as if offended.  “I can’t believe you believed me,” he mutters.

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa gasps, horrified. “The betrayal!”

Hanamaki snickers.  “Alright, y’know what, I think I’m just gonna wing it.  I’ll text you guys later with how it goes.  And thanks so much for the help, you two, screw you both.”

“Good luck,” wishes Hajime, making a cursory two-fingered salute to Hanamaki’s already-retreating form.

Oikawa pounces on him as soon as Hanamaki rounds the corner, hands shaking his shoulders.  “How could you!” he accuses, lower lip stuck out in a pout.

Hajime feigns innocence, reaching out to grab a piece of rice stuck to Oikawa’s cheek.  “How could I what, now?”

Oikawa attempts to scowl at him.  “You don’t think I’m good at romantic advice?  I’ll have you know that I am the most romantic person alive, maybe in the whole world, thank you very much.”

Hajime snorts, running his thumb over the crease between Oikawa’s brows.  “Stop scowling or your face is going to wrinkle and stay like that forever.”

Oikawa gasps, sitting back and putting a hand to his forehead.  When he realizes Hajime’s teasing him, however, he leans back in with an even deeper scowl.  “You are so mean to me.  How could I ever think you love me when you’re this mean?” He sighs dramatically, resting his head back on Hajime’s shoulder and throwing a hand to his forehead.

Hajime hums, rolling his eyes and brushing the hair away from Oikawa’s forehead.  He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.  “Because I do love you.  And I tell you that every day, so you should know it plenty well by now.”

Oikawa titters gleefully, tapping Hajime’s nose with utmost grace.  “Iwa-chan, maybe you’re the romantic one.”

Hajime feels his eyebrow twitch.  “Tap my nose like that again and I’ll end you.”

“Iwa-chan, you’re such a brute.”  Oikawa puffs up his cheeks in annoyance, holding Hajime’s gaze for a long moment.  He releases all his air in a soft sigh, face lighting up into a grin.  “But I love you too.”


	23. Kagehina

“Can you cuddle me?”

Kageyama startles, feeling a bit of an embarrassed blush creep up his neck.  He lifts his arm after a moment, muttering a quiet, “Yeah, why?” and feeling Hinata flop against him and curl up into a ball.  He wraps his arm around Hinata’s back, resting his chin on top of the crown of orange atop Hinata’s head, and turns a page in his book.

“Bad day,” mumbles Hinata, voice muffled by Kageyama’s shirt.  He wiggles a bit, and Kageyama pinches him as he buries his cold feet in between Kageyama’s bare legs.

Kageyama reaches a hand up, gently brushing his fingers through Hinata’s hair.  His eyes scan the page of his book idly.  "Do you wanna talk about it?“

“Not really.”

“Okay.”

It’s a long moment before Hinata perks up, just barely, and tilts his chin up to watch Kageyama as he reads.  “Whatcha reading?” he asks softly.

Kageyama makes a face, crinkling his nose and twisting his mouth to one side.  He’s not a good liar—at least, he doesn’t think he is—but it’s worth a shot.  “I’m not…really.  It’s English, and I thought I could understand it, but—“

Hinata snorts.  “Dumbass,” he mutters under his breath.

Kageyama raises one eyebrow, shifting the book so that Hinata can see its pages.  “Okay,” he challenges.  “Then you read it.  Out loud, to me.”

Hinata narrows his eyes, glancing between Kageyama and the pages for a few seconds as if calculating.  Eventually he tilts his chin up in acceptance of the challenge and says, “Alright, fine.”

His eyes scan the page rapidly and he clears his throat.  Kageyama attempts to fight the blush heating up his cheeks.

“Today is the day that I decided to ask him out.  His smile always looks like the sun, so I was really nervous.  But I made him stay after practice, and then I told him that I wanted to be able to hold his hand and take him out for food and hug him and kiss him.  He thought I was teasing him, until I insisted, No, Hinata, I’m being—“  Hinata blinks, staring at the page for a long moment.  “Kageyama, what is this?”

Kageyama runs a hand over his face.  “My diary from back in high school, when we were first years.  I found it when I was looking through old boxes today.”

Hinata barks out a breathless laugh, swinging one of his legs over Kageyama’s lap.  He places both hands on Kageyama’s chest, leaning in close with wide eyes.  “Why is it in English?”

Kageyama blushes.  “You were really bad at English then.  Like, worse than me, even.  So I thought it would…function…like a code…Stop laughing at me!”

Hinata snickers, hands tightening in the fabric of Kageyama’s shirt.  He leans forward, resting his forehead on Kageyama’s shoulder, and Kageyama can feel him shaking from the amusement.  Kageyama sighs, placing the book down and wrapping his arms around Hinata’s back.

“Your English was shit, but…that was actually really sweet, you know that?” Hinata murmurs quietly after a moment.

“D-dumbass,” accuses Kageyama, pressing his face into Hinata’s hair as if to hide.

Hinata snakes his arms around Kageyama’s sides, reveling in the mortified gasp as his cold fingers work their way in between the bed frame and Kageyama’s back.  “Why’d you lie about not being able to read it?  Unless you really got dumber since then.”

Kageyama hums in response.  “I know how you get when you have a bad day and something upsets you and you think you’re not good enough.”  He pauses, running one hand up and down Hinata’s back, before admitting,  “I just wanted to see you smile.”

He can’t see Hinata’s face from where it is, buried in the crook of his neck, but he can swear he hears a rueful grin on his voice when he murmurs back, “Thanks, Bakageyama.”


	24. Matsuhana

It’s not until two-thirty in the afternoon that Matsukawa feels the need to rouse his groggy, sleep-deprived boyfriend from the middle of their weekly Saturday snooze-a-thon, due to an slowly increasing sense of urgency.  He sighs, rolling onto his side, and prods Hanamaki in the cheek.

Hanamaki, ever the graceful sleeper, snorts, before slapping his hand away.  “’S not time for lunch yet, is it?” he grumbles, wiggling his nose.  

“Hey, ‘Hiro, you know what day it is, right?”

Hanamaki smiles sleepily.  “Mm, is it my birthday?” he guesses, blindly groping at somewhere under the blankets.

Matsukawa quirks an amused eyebrow.  “No, actually.  It’s the thirty-first.”

That manages to wake Hanamaki up.  His eyes snap open, immediately finding Matsukawa’s.  “ **No** ,” he whispers, horrified.

“Oh, yes,” replies Matsukawa, tapping Hanamaki’s nose with a growing smirk.  “The day you agreed to assist el capitán, remember?”

Hanamaki groans, rolling over and jamming both of his fists into his eyes.  “Ugh, God.  Why’d it have to be today?  Today is my **Issei** day.”  He freezes suddenly, and then rolls over into Matsukawa’s space, wrapping his arms around Matsukawa’s bare back.  “Oh, sugar pie, honey bunch, my sweet decadent plum pudding,” he coos, nuzzling his face into the crook of Matsukawa’s neck.

Matsukawa snorts.  “I’m not going with you.”

Hanamaki pulls back, mouth stretched in a grimace.  “You can’t do this to me.”

A yawn works its way out of Matsukawa’s throat, and he throws an arm up over his head, stretching.  “Stop looking at me like that, it’s your fault anyway.  You’re the one who offered your help.”

“But Mattsun!” protests Hanamaki, shaking his head.  He sticks out his bottom lip in a pout in his best Oikawa imitation, making Matsukawa laugh.  “You aren’t really going to make me go set up Oikawa’s party with him **alone** , are you?”

Matsukawa tilts his head, pretending to think.  “Alright, three conditions.”

“That’s fair.”

He lifts three fingers, grinning.  “One:  You stop with that terrible pout, you heathen.  You look like an Oikawa puppy.  Two: **You** have to get the takeout for lunch.  I’m sick of having to walk **all the way** to the door for a meal.  And three: tonight, for the midnight countdown, you and me are gonna sneak out of Oikawa’s lame-ass party and find somewhere else to go for something a little more than a midnight kiss.”

“Oh, bow wow,”  Hanamaki says with a wink and a yawn.  “I’ll take that deal.”

“Alright, then we’re set.”  Matsukawa glances over at the clock, tilting his head in a calculating manner.  “Okay, I’d say we’ve got two more hours to sleep, then lunch, and then we head on over to Oikawa’s.”

Hanamaki nods, giving a thumbs up.  “Sounds like a game plan.  Are you big spoon or little spoon this time?”

“I think I’ll take little.”


	25. Daisuga

“I mean, it’s good,” says Daichi, at around the point that the tanks and nukes are brought out.  He gestures vaguely at the screen, talking around a mouthful of popcorn.  “Quite good, actually.  I just don’t think it’s quite on par with The Fox and the Hound, y’know?”

Suga shushes him, slapping his chest lightly and keeping his eyes glued to the screen.

Daichi watches with a fond smile, continuing, “I mean, deer scene aside, it’s actually quite humorous.  I wasn’t really expecting that, to be honest.”

Amused, Daichi watches the screen for a moment, where the annoying FBI agent is currently arguing with what he assumes is the head honcho of the American government.  He nudges Suga slightly, remarking, “Everyone always says this movie is so sad, so I thought—“

_“Hogarth.  I go.  You stay.  No following.”_

Daichi mentally backpedals, eyes wide in shock.  “Wait, this isn’t—“

The kid sniffles on screen, waving at the Iron Giant as he ascends into the sky to stop the nuke.   _“I love you.”_

 _“You are who you choose to be.”_  The Iron Giant closes his eyes moments before impact.   _“Superman.”_

“What—?”  Daichi blinks rapidly.  “That didn’t— Suga, that’s not the end, is it?”

Suga swats him a few times, attempting to focus on the screen.  “Daichi, I love you, but **please** just **shut up** for **two seconds.** ”

Daichi glances back and forth between Suga and the screen.  The movie, fortunately, isn’t over, but by the time it is, he can barely contain the prickling feeling at the corners of his eyes.  Suga covers his mouth with his hands, sniffling sounds barely muffled by his sleeves.  

“Oh, hey,” Daichi murmurs, wrapping an arm around Suga’s shoulders.  “Hey, it’s…okay…”  Daichi clears his throat, batting at his face.

Suga pauses, glancing up with wide eyes.  “Daichi—?”  He blinks, face stretching into a sympathetic grin.  His hands emerge from his sleeves after a moment, framing Daichi’s face between smooth palms, his thumbs gently stroking underneath Daichi’s eyes.  “Oh…don’t cry…”

“I’m not crying,” Daichi protests, reaching out to grab a tissue from the coffee table and handing it to Suga.  “ **You’re** crying.”

Suga laughs—tears still flowing—and blows his nose.  “I’m not the only one,” he accuses.  “My ‘Saddest Children’s Movie’ nominee really got to you, huh?”

Daichi glances away, if only to give himself a moment to wipe the wetness from his cheeks.  “I think you might win this category,” he admits.

Suga hums faintly, dabbing his face with another tissue to catch the tears and snuggling into Daichi’s side.  “And with that spectacular conclusion, I think we might have had enough sadness, yeah?  The next film category should be…’Awful Rom-Coms.’”

“ **Oh, god,”** Daichi mutters with an expression full of regret.  “I am definitely winning this one.  Kuroo has a sickening fascination with these kinds of movies.”

“Oh, yeah?”  Suga laughs.  “Alright, you’re on.”


	26. Iwaoi

The text comes at half past midnight, long after the crushing loss and their silent ride back to Seijouh, where Oikawa had made his goodbyes and insisted that Hajime don’t follow.  Hajime’s always made sure that his “Oikawa” ringtone is loud enough to wake him up (though he’ll complain about it constantly whenever Oikawa sends any of those cheesy **good morning Iwa-chan!! ⌒(o＾▽＾o)ノ** texts), so he startles awake at the sound, hand groping blindly towards his night stand.

Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he squints at the bright screen.

**i changed my mind.  i don’t want to be alone.**

It takes him approximately eight and a half minutes to jam his feet in a pair of old boots, stumble downstairs (quietly; he doesn’t want to wake his parents), and jog the few blocks between their houses, phone clenched tightly in his fist.

The lights are out as he approaches the Oikawas’ residence, but that doesn’t really mean much.  His heartbeat quickens as he spots curtains billowing from what **must** be Oikawa’s open window.

The wall is easy to climb, especially with the key footholds Oikawa and him had manipulated some five or six years ago, and so scarcely a minute has passed when he tumbles through the window with the grace of a ballerina.  The wind is icy cold against his back, and so he turns immediately and pulls the window shut.  

Rubbing his hands together, he curses. “You idiot, you’re going to freeze to death.”

Then a sniffle reaches his ears.  Hajime freezes, eyes widening at the sound.  He turns into the dark room and spots a giant lump of blankets curled up next to the bed.

His breath releases in a **whoosh**.  “Oikawa,” he whispers, and makes his way on hands and knees to where Oikawa is bundled.

It’s a pitiful sight, indeed, to see Oikawa red-faced and snotty, face just barely emerging from his cocoon of blankets. Hajime wonders, briefly, how long Oikawa’s been like this.  For all he knows, Oikawa could’ve headed straight home and immediately buried himself with no intention of rising ’til the morning.  Hell, Oikawa might not have even eaten.  Hajime wouldn’t put it past him.

“Hey,” he soothes, sitting down beside him and pulling Oikawa into his shoulder.  Oikawa makes a broken noise, and an arm emerges from the blankets to wrap around Hajime’s waist.  “It’s okay.”

“I couldn’t do **anything** ,” Oikawa chokes out.

Hajime feels the wetness seeping into his shirt.  He smooths a hand over the mess of Oikawa’s curls, assuring, “No, you did everything you could.  You always do.  You try harder than anyone else, you know that?  Sometimes too hard.”

“And it’s still not good enough.  I’ll never be—“  He chokes on his words, breaking into another hiccuping sob.  “I’ll never be good enough.”

“Don’t say that,” Hajime hisses, harsher than he means.  He pauses, takes a breath, makes himself calm down.  “Never say that.  You’re always more than enough.  You hear me?  And if you didn’t, I’ll say it however many times you need.  I’m your friend; you can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Oikawa takes a breath, sniffling, and hides his face.  “I’m sorry,” he whispers.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I don’t deserve y—“

Hajime tightens his arms instinctively, pressing his lips to the crown of Oikawa’s head.  “You don’t get to decide what you deserve, Tooru.”

It’s a long time, but Hajime lets Oikawa cry for as long as he needs.  And when he finally sticks his head up, hair poking out in all directions and streaks of dried salt running down his cheeks as the only reminder of the tears, Hajime sighs and presses a kiss to his forehead, his nose, his lips.  

“You’ve always been such an ugly crier,” he mutters.

But Oikawa ignores this comment.  “Thank you,” he whispers instead.


	27. Tsukkiyama

The breaking point is a dropped bowl of popcorn.

Kei knows that Yamaguchi had had a rough practice, earlier.  He’d watched the gentle quivering in his back, the fists curled at his sides, as another one of his serves hit the net.  Kei’d almost reached a hand out to him, but before he could, another fake smile was stretching across his cheeks as he waved to Daichi and called, “One more, please!”

And then Yamaguchi’s day just gets worse in the form of a rain storm and a forgotten umbrella.  Kei offers his, which Yamaguchi shyly accepts, before making an attempt to split up–even in the rain–to head to his own house, insisting, “You don’t need to walk me all the way to my house, Tsukki!”

Kei catches his wrist, angling the umbrella over him.  

“Come to my house, then.  Your parents are working anyways,” he says, before turning and walking, knowing Yamaguchi would follow (and also knowing that Yamaguchi would blame himself for being a burden, once he reached a certain point, and that Kei would have to find the words to refuse this.  It wasn’t Yamaguchi’s fault that Kei was terrible at expressing how much he genuinely _wanted_ Yamaguchi to be with him, and that it wasn’t a burden.)

By the time they arrive, Kei’s gotten Yamaguchi to agree to some new dinosaur documentary airing on the history channel, and Yamaguchi disappears into the kitchen for a few minutes to make some popcorn (knowing how much Kei actually hates cooking).

Kei snaps back to attention as he hears the shattering of glass on his floor, blinking and turning away from the commercials flashing across his television.  Yamaguchi makes a startled noise, and Kei quickly gets up, walking over to and hovering in the kitchen doorway.  

One of Kei’s family’s cheap glass bowls lies shattered across the floor, popcorn mingling among the glass shards.  Yamaguchi covers his mouth with one hand, keeping an iron grip on the counter with the other.  He refuses to look at Kei, instead keeping his gaze fixated at some spot on the counter.  

“Sorry, Tsukki,” he gasps out after a moment.  "Just…give me a minute, won’t you?  I’ll be right there.“

Kei swallows.  He shakes his head lightly, and then leaves.  

 _Shoes_ , he thinks.  Akiteru keeps some slippers in the broom closet, he knows, so he quickly shuffles over, shoving them on his feet, and then returns to the kitchen. Shards of glass crunch underfoot as he makes his way over to Yamaguchi.

"Tsukki, no,” tries Yamaguchi, fake laugh bubbling up underneath tears.  "This is pretty pathetic, please just–“

"I’m not going,” Kei replies, reaching Yamaguchi, who still stubbornly refuses to turn around.  He reaches a hand out, near-subconsciously, but freezes as he realizes the implications of what he’s about to do.   _Hug_ Yamaguchi?  Kei swallows.  He’s not– Admittedly, Kei has always wanted to do so, but he’s never been good with people.  But why not now, when Yamaguchi clearly can’t support Kei, or even himself?

He steels himself, ignoring the way his heart hammers away in his chest, as Yamaguchi insists, “Please, I don’t want you–” Yamaguchi hiccups slightly, and pauses to regain control over his voice.  "I don’t want you to see me–“

And that does it.

Kei snakes his hands out, wrapping his arms lightly around Yamaguchi’s waist and stepping forward.  His face is heating up, and he thinks he might just die if Yamaguchi were to turn and see, so he does the only thing he can think to do and presses his face against the back of Yamaguchi’s neck, holding him in place.

Yamaguchi sucks in his breath sharply, and then releases it with a, "Tsukki–?”

Kei shakes his head lightly.   _Shut up_ , he thinks–almost pleads.   _Don’t make this more embarrassing than it already is._  Curling his hands lightly around Yamaguchi’s shirt, he repeats, “I’m not going.”

Yamaguchi almost laughs, but it dissolves quickly into a shattering, broken noise.  His shoulders quiver, so Kei just pulls him closer, arms circling tighter around his waist.  

His nose brushes the freckled skin of Yamaguchi’s neck, and Yamaguchi’s hair tickles his brow.  It’s _close_ –too close, Kei thinks to himself as an excuse for his heart rate.  “It’s not pathetic,” he says quietly.  There are other things, too, that he wants to say, but he knows he won’t find the words.  The thought of actually being able to tell Yamaguchi how he feels is almost laughable, so he does nothing but hold on.

Fortunately, that’s seemingly enough.  Or, at least, it helps.  Because Yamaguchi’s still crying, his shoulders shaking and breath quivering, but he’s no longer trying to hide it, and he manages to gasp out a, “Thank you.  I’m sor–”

Kei cuts him off.  “No apologies.  You always do this for me.”

One of Yamaguchi’s hands lifts from the counter and covers Kei’s hand lightly, fingers still shaking.  Kei releases his shirt, angling his fingers to wrap around Yamaguchi’s.

“I’ll be okay soon,” insists Yamaguchi, squeezing Kei’s hand.  “Just give me–a little time.  I just–I just need a minute, please.  Just a–”

Kei brushes his thumb over Yamaguchi’s knuckles.  “It’s okay.  I’ll stay until then, whenever it is.  It’s okay.”


	28. Iwaoi

“If you poke my eye out, I am _actually_ going to kill you.”

Oikawa pulls his hand back, fixing Hajime with one of his sternest looks.  "Iwa-chan, I am _offended_ that you would think me capable of something like that!“  He pauses, adding in a quieter voice, "But stop moving, you’re stressing me out.”

Hajime grunts noncommittally, letting Oikawa return his hands, one holding his jaw in place and the other balancing on his cheekbone as he drags the eyeliner pencil over his eyelid.  It tickles, Hajime thinks, as it brushes against and under and in between his eyelashes.  He has no idea how Oikawa actually manages to put up with this.

“Can I give you a wing?” asks Oikawa quietly.

“What the hell is a wing?”  Upon noting Oikawa’s pleading look (big eyes and lower lip frozen in a pout), Hajime raises an eyebrow.  "No.“

"But _Iwa_ –”

“Is it how you do yours?” Hajime questions, reaching a hand out to trace the black around Oikawa’s eyes.

Oikawa grins, nodding.  "It’ll look pretty,“ he assures.  "I promise.”

“Looking pretty on you is far easier than looking pretty on me,” Hajime grouses, rolling his eyes and causing Oikawa to erupt in a chorus of titters at his movements.  "Sorry.  Yeah, go ahead.“

Oikawa smiles, all self-satisfied, and drags the pencil along the corner of Hajime’s eyes.  "Iwa-chan, was that a compliment?” he chirps.

“Shut up.”

Oikawa only clicks his tongue, completely undeterred.  "Oh, dear, if only you knew how handsome you were, then you’d…“  He trails off, narrowing his eyes in concentration as he angles his wrist to better draw what Hajime assumes must be a "wing.”  Hajime watches him in amusement (and yes, he’ll admit it, perhaps a slight fondness) as he concentrates, from the way his tongue sticks out slightly between his lips, to the near-scowl he wears, causing his forehead to wrinkle.  He tries hard not to move as Oikawa’s pencil touches a sensitive area of skin underneath his eyes.

Oikawa brightens suddenly, sitting back and rubbing his thumb once under Hajime’s left eye.  "Done,“ he says, reaching behind him to grab a hand mirror and then presenting it to Hajime.

Hajime blinks at the image of himself, eyes looking larger than before, lined with a dark color that makes his eyelashes–are those his eyelashes, really? He leans closer to the mirror.  Those couldn’t really be _his_ eyelashes, because they look far too long.

Oikawa giggles, causing Hajime to look up and snap a quick, "What?”

“Did I do a good job?”

Hajime glances back down at the mirror, scowling.  He hadn’t realized the eyeliner was dark _blue_ , either, and have his eyes _ever_ looked so green?  "How the hell did you do that?“ he asks incredulously. "You made me look, like, _pretty_.”

Oikawa smiles, dropping the hand mirror and scooting closer to smooth his hands over Hajime’s face.  "Oh, my pure, innocent Iwa-chan.  Makeup is only _enhancement_.  It just improves what’s already there.“

Hajime’s face feels like fire as he glances down, scowling.  Oikawa presses a soft kiss to his forehead, grin evident in the gentle curve of his lips against Hajime’s skin.  

"Besides,” Oikawa murmurs in a hum as he pulls back to look over Hajime’s face.  "Even without the makeup, you’re pretty, and handsome, and cool, and ador–“

Hajime kisses him.

Oikawa laughs as he pulls back, letting his own forehead rest against Hajime’s.  "What was that for?  Feeling embarrassed? Telling me to shut up?  Just wanting to kiss me, the oh-so-beautiful-and-charming love of your life?”

Hajime swallows.  "Yes,“ he says.  "To all.”


	29. Bokuaka

“Bokuto-san, it’s come to my attention that a few of the first years blame us for the realization of their sexual preferences.”

Bokuto’s head lifts from the table, where he had been “resting his eyes” during a short break from their classwork.  He cocks his head curiously, looking much like a child who just woke up from a nap, and asks, “Why us?”

Keiji feels his cheeks redden.  He glances down.  "I’m not sure.  Konoha mentioned earlier–“

"Konoha?”  Bokuto slams his palms on the desk, startling Keiji, and leans forward into Keiji’s space with a sense of nervous urgency.  "What did he tell you?“

Keiji blinks.  "He told me the tall first year from Nekoma wanted him to thank us for his…how did he put it…his gay awakening?”  His voice gets quieter towards the end, and he notices Bokuto slump back in relief.

“Oh, okay, I was worried– Er, that’s good.  Good for that kid.  Good, good,” affirms Bokuto with a nod.

“Good?” queries Keiji.  "You’re not surprised?“

"Surprised?”  Bokuto rests his chin on his palm.  "Why would I be–?“  His eyes widen.  "Ah, no, surprised!  Yeah, of course I’m surprised, definitely.  Why would something think we were gay? Tch, no, there’s n-no homo between us.”

Keiji swallows and nods, glancing down.  "Ah, right.“  He attempts to resist the bubble of disappointment that swells in his chest, because, after all, why should he be disappointed that Bokuto doesn’t share the same preference?  He glances back down at his text book.  "What did you get for number five, Bokuto-san?”

“You want _my_ help?” asks Bokuto, incredulously.  "Hell yeah, I can help!  Let me–“  He glances down at his workbook, face falling.  "Oh, I haven’t done that one yet.  It was too hard.”

“Perhaps you should at least attempt it before you give up,” Keiji advises, moving onto number sixteen.

Bokuto lasts through an entire minute of pretending to attempt the problem, twirling his pencil between his fingers and making a big show of chewing on his lip like the problem is asking him for the meaning of life.  Keiji keeps his eyes trained to the paper, used to Bokuto’s manner of acting pitiful when he wants Keiji to just give him the answers.  He steels himself, silently deciding that he’s not going to give in this time.

“Hypothetically,” Bokuto pipes up after a moment, tapping his two index fingers together and glancing somewhere off to the side, “if there, uh, _was_  homo between us, you know, instead of no homo, what would that be like?”

Keiji pauses, glancing up from beneath his eyelashes.  Bokuto shifts uncomfortably, fidgeting in his seat and drumming his fingers against the pages of his textbook.  Keiji drops his gaze to the textbook.

“Well,” he begins ever-so-cautiously.  “I suppose we would be closer to each other than we are with any others.”

“Right,” agrees Bokuto, nodding with wide eyes.

Keiji holds his stare. “We would, possibly, have interest in going out with the other.  Like on a date, or…something of the like.”

Bokuto nods again.

Taking a breath, Keiji shrugs and glances out the window.  “And, I suppose we could potentially be responsible for a–what was it?–a gay awakening, if it came to that.  Perhaps our physical closeness could…have underlying meanings behind it.  Romantic meanings, maybe.  Or, as you would call it, uh, homo meanings.”

Glancing back from the window, Keiji finds Bokuto staring at him, amber eyes wider than ever.  He swallows, adding, “Hypothetically, of course.”

Bokuto nods just barely, the movement closer to a twitch or a nervous tick.  He takes his lower lip between his teeth, eyes scanning over Keiji’s face as he appears to think.  There’s a breath, and then he opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, and then _finally_  says, “Then, uh, hypothetically, if these feelings _were_  to exist–you know, hypothetically.  Um, how would I ask you out, in that case?”

Keiji blinks.  There’s an odd tone to his voice, making it softer than usual, less confident.  Or maybe the entire conversation in general is odd, when he thinks about it.  The outburst at Konoha’s name, the stuttered declarations of ‘no homo,’ the _hypotheticals_.  Bokuto keeps chewing on his lip, which Keiji knows he only does when he’s insecure, and then suddenly– It makes sense.

Keiji bites back a grin.  “I suppose you would just ask me to dinner, or a movie.  Maybe, if you were too nervous, you would write it down on a note and give it to me, like we do with some of our plays.”

“Right.”  Bokuto nods once, and then turns back to his schoolwork.  To anyone outside of the conversation, Keiji figures, it would look like he’s simply _very_  focused on finally solving number five, but from where Keiji sits, Bokuto’s messy scrawl is clearly forming words, not numbers.  

“I like those owls you draw on your English notes,” Keiji blurts, causing Bokuto to pause and glance up in confusion.  Keiji gestures lamely over at the note before pulling his hand back to fiddle with his fingers.  “If you, uh, want to add one.  I think it might be a nice touch, to make sure I say yes.  Hypothetically, of course.”

The knowing grin that spreads across Bokuto’s cheeks is blinding, cheeks stretching wide until his eyes crinkle at the corner and the dimple in his right cheek pops out.  Keiji thinks it might be contagious, too, because he has to duck his head to hide his own.

“Got it,” Bokuto announces, adding another little something to his notebook.  Keiji chooses to focus on number sixteen, feeling his heart hammering away in his chest at the sound of tearing paper and the scooting of a chair against linoleum flooring.  A hand thrusts out across the table, and Keiji finds his textbook suddenly obscured by an uneven section of notebook paper.

_hey akaashi do you wanna get dinner sometime : > (choose the happy owl or the sad owl!!)_

A grin sneaks its way onto Keiji’s face, and he glances up at Bokuto to find him pretending to be completely focused on his textbook.  Slowly, he takes the note in one hand and circles the comical drawing of an owl with a happy face, before folding the note once–twice, for good measure–and then handing it back to Bokuto.

Bokuto perks up, hastily unfolding the note and almost tearing it in half in its haste.  He blinks down at the paper, grin stretching across his cheeks, and then glances up at Keiji, practically vibrating in his chair.

“Not hypothetical?” he asks, clarifying.

Keiji snorts despite himself, and quickly covers his mouth with his hand.  “Yes, Bokuto-san.  Not hypothetical.  Very, very real.”


	30. Matsuhana

“Mattsun, do you ever think about marriage?”

Matsukawa snorts.  Hanamaki shifts his head from where it lies on Matsukawa’s lap to look up at him, eyes squinting slightly in the sun. Matsukawa watches with amusement as Hanamaki visibly tries to resist the urge to laugh.

“Wow,” answers Matsukawa in a dull deadpan.  "How did you know?  Marriage is constantly on my mind, just like it is with all teenage boys.“

Hanamaki hums in response, taking a sip from his juicebox.  "Smartass.”

“Hm?”  Matsukawa raises an eyebrow, looking down on Hanamaki.  "What, do you?“

Hanamaki’s brows scrunch together in concentration, and Matsukawa tries to not find it the cutest thing in the world.  "Yeah,” he says, distractedly.  "Like, Mattsun, consider this:  who’s gonna buy all the creampuffs?  I eat a _lot_ of cream puffs.  And I don’t really want to buy all of them for myself, but at the same time, that’s a lot to ask of my spouse, you know?“

"Really,” Matsukawa mutters, raising his eyebrows and failing to conceal an amused grin.

Hanamaki nods once, completely convinced, and then glances up at him.  “Oh, come on, as if you wouldn’t be entirely demanding to your spouse too.”

“I wouldn’t, though.”  Taking a bite of his sandwich, he thinks about it, chewing slowly.  After a moment, he taps Hanamaki’s forehead, earning an indignant click of his tongue in response.  “I’m the epitome of low-maintenance.  You, on the other hand…”

Hanamaki rolls his eyes.  “Oh, please.  Epitome of low-maintenance, my ass. You, sir, are the type to always need like hours on end to be spoiled.  Like, when your spouse gets home from a long day of work, do you let them relax? No, you would demand movie watching or cuddling or that weird thing you do where you make people scratch your head.  Honestly, it’s like you’re a cat, and if cats are one thing, it’s high-maintenance.”

“Hey,” Matsukawa warns lowly, swatting at the top of Hanamaki’s head.  “Maybe I just have a hair kink. It’s not _that_  uncommon.”  Hanamaki hums in affirmation, and he continues, “How do you know about that, anyways?  I’ve only made you rub my head, like, twice.”

Hanamaki snorts.  “It’s not that difficult to figure out.  You’re a creature of habit, Issei.”

“A habitual cat, apparently,” Matsukawa remarks, taking another bite of his sandwich.  His eyes scan lazily over the courtyard.  “However will my future spouse put up with me?”

“You’re not taking this seriously,” Hanamaki accuses.

“No,” he admits.  “Am I supposed to?  You got marriage on your mind a lot, ‘Hiro?”

“Yeah, ‘cause Oikawa wouldn’t stop talking about how I’m never going to find someone who’s willing to put up with me for more than three hours,” Hanamaki replies, sounding almost wistful.  

Matsukawa raises an eyebrow. “What’d you do?”

“Ate his milk bread.  I was hungry.”

Matsukawa snorts, finishing off the rest of his sandwich and dropping his hand to rest on Hanamaki’s stomach.  He chews thoughtfully, mind running over all the things Hanamaki’s said and letting his other hand brush lightly through Hanamaki’s hair.  “You know,” he says at last.  “If both of us are incapable of getting married, then maybe we should just marry each other.”

Hanamaki pauses, before leveling a wicked grin in Matsukawa’s direction.  “Is that a proposal, Issei?”

Matsukawa shrugs.  “I guess a trial run is in order.  So maybe just a date, for now.  We can save the marriage for later.”

Wide eyes look back at him, and he realizes belatedly that, _oh, I really did just ask Hanamaki on a date, didn’t I? That wasn’t even a joke that time._   Clearing his throat, he shrugs sheepishly and continues, “I don’t really have a problem with buying your creampuffs, you know.”

Hanamaki swallows, sitting up from his lap to peer at Matsukawa’s face, likely determining how serious he must be.  It’s all Matsukawa can do to make himself stay still and be watched, feeling the dull thumping in his chest increase slightly at the proximity.  It’s not like he’s never been near to Hanamaki.  It’s on the contrary, actually, because the two of them tease each other all the time; he’d even deign to call it _flirting_ , since it’s usually to mess with Oikawa anyways, but it’s never _real._

Matsukawa could’ve sworn that it wasn’t real (at least on Hanamaki’s side).  That is, until Hanamaki’s face lights up in a dazzling grin and he reaches a hand forward to tap Matsukawa’s nose.

“I don’t really have a problem with your hair kink either.”

The air escapes Matsukawa’s lungs in a breathy, slightly nervous laugh.  He swallows, raising his eyebrows.  “Are you saying–”

“Let’s get dinner sometime. A trial run doesn’t sound so bad.”  Hanamaki nods once, faux confidence oozing from the movement, and then turns away to stare at something nonexistent across the courtyard.  Matsukawa doesn’t fail to notice the pinkness rising to the tips of Hanamaki’s ears, and so he bites back his grin, twiddling his thumbs in his lap.

“Alright. Dinner.”

(Later, Matsukawa sends a picture of their dinner date to Oikawa, who then spends the next two weeks complaining to Iwaizumi about the _total unfairness, Iwa-chan, that was way too easy!_ until Iwaizumi follows their lead and shuts him up with a kiss.)


	31. Kuroken

They’re eight and nine when Kuroo first learns of it.  It takes one flash of light, the sudden clap of thunder following soon after, and he watches his best friend crumple into a ball on his bedroom floor.  Kenma is quiet, but Kuroo’s never seen him shake like that, and it scares him. And so he does the only thing he can think to do and tells stories of how even the most _amazing_  superheroes get scared, flashlights dancing as a means of distraction from underneath their blanket fort.  

They’re eleven and twelve ( _almost_  real teenagers, as Kuroo always boasts) and Kuroo wakes first to the ping of a text on his brand-new cell phone instead of the rumbling of thunder, though that follows soon after.  Kenma’s house is a mere thirty seconds away but he makes it in ten, wind lashing and rain pelting against the soft fabric of his pajamas.  He’s not sure who hugs who first, but there is a tangle of limbs and shaky breaths exhaled in close proximity, and Kuroo tells him, _it’s okay, I’m here now, it’s okay._

Kuroo’s sixteen, Kenma fifteen, and a small hand reaches down from Kenma’s bed to the futon on which Kuroo lies.  He can’t see Kenma’s face, but he can hear the rain against the windows, and so he grips Kenma’s hand tight within his own. They’re too old to share beds at this point; the words “different” and “wrong” have rang in their ears many times over the years, enough to make them shy.  Kuroo’s not afraid of those words, but he is afraid of three others.  So he keeps his mouth shut, praying that his hand conveys everything his mouth can’t.

Kuroo’s nineteen this time, his presence not quite strong enough over the phone line. _It’s only a hundred miles,_ he whispers into the phone.  He can’t even hear the thunder this time–around him is all sunshine and hazy post-summer warmth–but he can hear each shaking breath and sob on the other end.  “I need you,” Kenma says, and it feels like he’s been stabbed.  One hundred miles has never felt so great.

Kuroo’s twenty-one, and he hears the boom echo throughout his dorm room.  He can count in his head at this point– _one, two three, four–_ and then padded footsteps precede a knock on his door.  He lets Kenma in, pressing kisses to his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, his lips.  “It’s okay,” Kuroo says, because he’s not afraid of the words anymore, “I’m here. I love you. It’s okay.” 

They’re twenty-four and twenty-five now and the thunderstorms aren’t as scary anymore.  Some storms are worse than others, Kuroo finds, but it’s getting easier to distract him with pillow forts (which Kenma always talks about, claiming that they’re too childish) and other methods (which Kenma will never, not ever, talk about).  Sometimes, he’s noticed, Kenma will fiddle with the ring on his left hand, and it seems to calm him.  (Sometimes, on particularly bad nights, Kuroo will tell him “I’m here,” just to be sure, and Kenma will squeeze his hand and whisper back, “Me too.”)


	32. Iwaoi

It’s raining, water coming down from the sky in thick, unyielding sheets, and Tooru’s cursing himself for the millionth time for having forgotten his umbrella earlier that day, when he spots the huddled mass of wet fur shivering outside of his apartment building.  The thing just barely lifts its head at the sound of his footsteps to regard him with sad eyes.  Tooru watches a steady trail of water drip down from the awning, surrounding the thing on all sides with puddles, and it curls its tiny paws into its body as if trying to keep as dry as possible.  The wind whips at the back of Tooru’s neck, the only part of him uncovered, and it chills him.  He doesn’t want to consider how cold the puppy must be.

 _Oh_ , Tooru thinks, and then, _Hajime’s going to kill me._

* * *

It takes three minutes for the dog to get used to their apartment, another five for it to discover the pantry after Tooru lays out a food bowl, and a whole fifteen before Tooru hears Hajime’s key turn in the lock.  Unfortunately, he hadn’t been expecting him home so early (he’s usually home a whole seven minutes later, Tooru thinks).  And so when the front door opens and then slams, Tooru realizes for the first time that the dog _might_ just be faster than him, watching in horror as it dashes towards the source of the noise.

Tooru makes a mad dive for the dog.  His socks slip against the floors, feet giving out from underneath him, but he manages to get a hold around the body of his–no, not _his_ , technically–dog.  He grunts as his stomach hits the ground, and the dog whines in his arms, eager to head over to the source of the noise he’d heard.

“Tooru? I’m home.”

There’s a series of padded footsteps heading in his direction, and Tooru braces himself.

Hajime’s head pops up in the kitchen doorway, relaxed grin slipping immediately into a look of shock at the sight of his boyfriend on the ground, arms wrapped around a dog shaking with barely-contained excitement.

“What the _fuck_ is that?”

The dog starts wagging its tail, whacking Tooru in the face with each movement.  Tooru grins regardless, flipping his bangs out of his face and hoping he doesn’t look as ridiculous as he thinks he looks.  "A puppy?“ he tries.

He loosens his arms, and that’s all it takes.  The dog bounds over to Hajime, jumping up at his waist, tail wagging and tongue lolling.  Hajime yelps, and if Tooru wasn’t fearful for his life, he’d laugh.

“No, no, what the _fuck_ –get this _thing_ away from me!” Hajime hisses, stumbling back against the doorframe and holding his work bag high above the dog’s reach.  The dog is undeterred, and only yips at Hajime, throwing a glance back at Tooru as if to say _boy, oh boy, I like him!_

Tooru scrambles to his feet, placing a hand on the back of the dogs neck, as a means of pushing it down.  "C'mon, it’s just a dog–“

” _Just_ a dog?“ Hajime repeats, wide-eyed.  He scowls, placing his work bag on the counter (keeping a mindful distance of the dog as he moves around the kitchen), and cuffs Tooru on the back of his head.  "Are you serious? You know I can’t do dogs. They–” Hajime gasps in a breath suddenly, the air escaping him in a violent, _Achoo!_

“But _Hajime_ –” He sticks out his lower lip. Hajime raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.   _No_ , Tooru thinks, _Allergies or not, I’m not losing this battle._ “C'mon, you know how you always wanted kids–”

Hajime’s scowl deepens.  "This isn’t a kid, Tooru, it’s a dog.  Besides, you’re the one who doesn’t like kids–“

” _Exactly!_ “  Tooru holds up a finger, like he’s made a solid point.  "Think of this as a trial run, to raising kids.”  He crouches down, wrapping an arm around the dog, and ruffles behind its ears.  The dog pants in his ears, and Tooru feels the scratchy wet of a tongue running across his cheek.  His lips form a pout as he looks up at Hajime.  "Besides, how could you say no to this face?“

Hajime’s mouth twists up into a tight knot; his eyes glance sideways, burning holes in the wall.  Tooru smiles fondly, watching him waver, his fingers idly scratching the back of the dog’s head.  

"They _shed_. And they bite, and–and they bark!  Think of all the beauty sleep you’re losing, Tooru.  Think of all the hair that’s going to be on your clothes.”  

It’s a valiant attempt to counter him, Tooru thinks, and he applauds Hajime; he really does!  Saying no to his pout is something that Hajime hasn’t grown _entirely_ immune to, but yet again, is anyone else immune to it?  It’s not that Tooru doesn’t care about his sleep, or his clothes, but– He throws a glance at the dog, watching it pant happily and lick the tip of his nose.  A laugh escapes him, and he wipes at his face, before turning back to Hajime and catching him staring.

“I found him on the street, in the rain.”  He stands, letting go of the dog, and it scampers out of the kitchen.  Hajime watches it go with a deep frown, and Tooru reaches out to grab Hajime’s hand in his.  Hajime stiffens, covering his mouth with his free arm and sneezing into it again.  "We can’t just leave him out there, can we?  C'mon, look into that itty-bitty heart of yours.“

Hajime narrows his eyes, nose poking out from underneath his arms.  "The medical bills for a dog–”  He sneezes again.

“They make allergy medicine, you know,” Tooru points out, stepping closer.  He squeezes Hajime’s hand in his, reaching up to adjust his collar.  "And I’ll walk him, and feed him, and play with him.  You’d barely even notice he’s here!“  

He chews his lip, picking a last resort from his mental pile of blackmail.  

"Remember that time you got drunk and insisted that we name our first kid Godzilla?  A good, strong name, you’d said.  Fearsome.”  Hajime scowls, but remains still.  "I told you that you could name the non-existent kid Godzilla over my dead body, and you told me that could be arranged, and then we didn’t speak to each other for the rest of the night.  Makki was furious that we ruined his birthday party.“

"What’s your point?” Hajime grumbles, cheeks dusted with red.  "It’s not good to bring up another fight during a fight, you know.“

"Well,” Tooru continues, taking another step closer and grinning mischievously, “I’ll let you name the dog.”  He shifts his grip on Hajime’s hand, twining their fingers together.  Leaning closer, he presses his lips against Hajime’s cheek.  "You can name him whatever you want.“

"I feel like you’re trying to seduce me,” mutters Hajime, voice lowered to a whisper. 

Tooru attempts to fight his smile. “Is it working?”

“No,” Hajime lies.  He glances away, lips stretched into a grimace.  Tooru counts to three. Hajime heaves a giant sigh, pinching his eyes shut.  "Alright, we can keep the dog.“

* * *

"So the _dog_  convinced you to adopt a kid? Oikawa ‘I Hate Children’ Tooru?”

“Kids _are_ dogs.”  Tooru pauses, frowning.  "No, wait.  The other way.  Dogs are kids.“

Somewhere behind him in the kitchen, he hears the rattle of Hajime playing tug of war with the dog, and he rolls his eyes.  Eleven months into it, and the dog has _shockingly_ chosen a favorite of the two of them.  Tooru refuses to admit how bitter he is that it’s Hajime.

Hanamaki snickers across from him, tossing some popcorn into his mouth.  "Jealousy doesn’t look great on you.”  He glances down at the paperwork on the table in front of them.  "This is a shit load of stuff to do.  All for a kid?“

Tooru shrugs.  "Worth it.”

“What makes you think they’ll even approve you as parents?” Hanamaki quips with a raised eyebrow.

Tooru gasps.  "Excuse you, how could they say no?  Have you seen me?“  He throws a glance over his shoulder, towards the kitchen.  "Have you seen _him_?”

Hanamaki raises an eyebrow.  "You and your daddy kink.“

The doorbell rings, and Tooru hears the distant pattering of claws against the floor as the dog darts towards the door.  Hajime calls after her with an exhausted, "Godzilla, no jumping!" 

"That must be Mattsun,” Tooru mutters, resting his chin on his palm.  He twirls the ring on his finger, an idle habit that he’s picked up on over the past few months.  

Hanamaki clicks his tongue.  "You guys are so domestic.“

Tooru grins, sitting straighter as Hajime leads Matsukawa into the living room, laughing about some joke that Tooru probably wouldn’t understand.  Godzilla comes bounding after them, tail wagging a mile a minute, and hops up onto Hajime’s lap as he settles onto the coach beside Tooru, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. He presses a kiss to Tooru’s forehead before leaning back, fingers scratching away behind Godzilla’s ear–her favorite spot to be petted.

"Ew, you guys are so domestic,” says Matsukawa, taking a seat beside them and pulling out a pile of movies from his backpack.

“That’s what I just said!”  Hanamaki smiles, self-satisfied, and pokes at Matsukawa’s side.  "What are we watching today?“

Matsukawa simply smiles, glancing over at Tooru and Hajime.  "Ask the newlyweds.”


	33. Tsukkiyama

They lose a game (something that’s grown much more rare over the years), and Yamaguchi’s surprise is limited when, after bidding the rest of the team farewell and agreeing to lock up, Tsukishima grabs his hand and drags him over to the locker room.

The press of the cold lockers against his back, the subtle ministrations of Tsukishima’s hands along his waist, the soft press of lips and sharp nip of teeth along his neck– All of these sensations have grown much more familiar over the years, and normally, Yamaguchi would relish in them, enjoying his time alone with Tsukishima as if there would be no other.  He was fine with that idea at first, too; he hadn’t considered himself selfish enough to assume that Tsukishima liked him back in the same way, enough for them to be something more than touches hidden in locker rooms.  

But after a year’s worth of kisses and secretive smiles and all the _time_ spent together, it’s grown to the point that the idea of being together seems so _real_.

Tsukishima kisses Yamaguchi, and Yamaguchi feels himself shiver. The feeling of discomfort, of dishonesty, coils tight within his stomach, and he’s hit with the sudden realization that _this has to stop_.  It’s either all, he figures, or nothing.

He gets words out when he can, when Tsukishima directs his kisses towards Yamaguchi’s neck.

“Hey, Tsukki, stop.”

Tsukishima laughs lightly, his breaths tickling against Yamaguchi’s throat.  'Stop’ is a word that’s too often playfully thrown-around, hidden beneath giggles and kisses and ‘not _here_ , what if we get caught?’s.  It’s sometimes an attempt at a challenge, sometimes meant to fluster, sometimes tried as teasing.  But not this time. 

“Tsukki…I’m serious,” he tries again, placing his palm flat against Tsukishima’s chest. “ _Kei_.”

Tsukishima tenses immediately, freezing.  He pulls back, brows furrowing as he peers at Yamaguchi to gauge his concern.  "What’s wrong?“ His tone is worried, concerned that he’s hurt Yamaguchi, hidden beneath a layer of defensiveness.  Yamaguchi almost cracks a smile at that (he would, under normal circumstances); Tsukishima’s never liked to be up-front about his concern for others.

Yamaguchi swallows.  "Can we–”  The words are thick on his tongue.  "Can we talk?  Please?“

Tsukishima clicks his tongue.  "What’s there to talk about?”  

He glances over his shoulder once, as if emphasizing the fact that someone could walk in any minute, so _why not make the most of their time_? The idea of getting caught used to thrill Yamaguchi, but now it makes him queasy.  Yamaguchi shifts, glancing away, and Tsukishima takes a step back to give him space.  

Biting his lip, Yamaguchi gestures vaguely between the two of them.  "This.  Us.  Everything,“ he elaborates.  "We never talk, you know?”

Tsukishima is shifty, eyes slotting to the side.  "Now’s not really the time for–“

"No, now is the _perfect_ time.  No one’s here, we’re not at home, so neither of us can just hide from this. We’re out in the open, and we can be honest with each other.”

“Honest?  What’s there to be honest about?  I tell you everything.”

Yamaguchi glances down, nodding.  That’s true. He’s considered, on several occasions, the very real possibility that Tsukishima might not feel the same.  It’s disheartening, painful, and really goddamn depressing to think about, he’ll admit, but it’s better to know than to feel the guilt of each kiss, each touch, each breath exchanged.  He shifts his feet slightly, leaning back against the lockers, and fiddles with his fingers.  "Well, I haven’t been honest with you, then.“

Tsukishima blinks in the split second that Yamaguchi chooses to actually look up at him, face unreadable.  "What do you mean?”

Pinching his eyes shut, Yamaguchi mumbles ever-so-slowly, “I don’t want this to be just physical.”

He counts the second in his head as he waits for Tsukishima to respond.  When he does, it’s with a startled exhale of a, “What?”

“I don’t want this to be just physical! I don’t want to feel guilty every time you touch me because it’s like I’m using you, because I like you and there’s a chance you don’t like me, so that’s like cheating you out of something because I’m benefitting more than you are.  I don’t like living with this proximity to just be able to kiss you but it’s not real, it doesn’t mean the same to you, and I don’t like–”

Tsukishima dips his head suddenly, pressing his lips firmly against Yamaguchi’s as his hands go up to cup his cheeks.  The intent is clear, and Yamaguchi stops talking immediately.

He pulls back after a moment, enough to rest his forehead against Yamaguchi’s.  "Shut up, Yamaguchi, seriously.  You sound really stupid right now.“

"It’s _not_ stupid–”

“It is. There’s no chance that that kiss didn’t mean the same to me as it meant to you.”

Yamaguchi blinks, taking a breath, and attempts to process the words one more time.  "You mean–?“

And there’s the return of Tsukishima’s skittish look; he glances to the side, cheeks covered with a dusting of pink.  "Shut _up_ , Yamaguchi. I didn’t think we _needed_ to talk about this.  You’re–to me, you’re–”  He takes a breath, dropping his head.  "It never _was_ just physical.“

Yamaguchi’s eyes widen, and so does his grin.  He reaches his arms out, smoothing his palms over the curves of Tsukishima’s back, and pulls him into a crushing hug. "Tsukki,” he breathes into Tsukishima’s shoulder, and for once, there’s no apology or nervousness or regret hidden in the word.

They lock up eventually, making their way home together, and Tsukishima even allows Yamaguchi to hold his hand on the way back.


	34. Kagehina

Kageyama had never wanted to kiss a boy.

As a matter of fact, Kageyama had never wanted to kiss anyone, really.  There was the occasional thought of, “That might be nice,” whenever he saw a particularly pretty girl, but generally it faded away with the acknowledgment that girls found him scary and that there were more important things anyways–volleyball, in particular.

He never paid much mind to any of _those_ thoughts, which is why he never found others strange.  "Suga-san is quite pretty,“ seemed normal.  "Iwaizumi-senpai has nice muscles,” was a mere observation.  "Daichi-san would be a good boyfriend,“ was basic fact.

However, for the longest time, he’d never thought, "Hinata would be nice to kiss.”

The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind until he found himself hugging Hinata (how did they get there? Hinata had _just_ landed the last spike), and Hinata was laughing into his ear, hair tickling his cheek.  Normally he would’ve scolded him for being so loud, but the spike was _perfect_ , the best quick they’d ever done, and even if practically no one was around in the post-practice gym, it was still beautiful.  Hinata was beautiful.

Hinata pulled back, and Kageyama made a motion toward him.  It was subconscious, and he didn’t realize until the distance between them had narrowed to an inch that it was an attempt at a kiss.  Hinata’s laugh had cut off, and he was simply staring, eyes wide in confusion.  Kageyama released him, taking a step back.  His throat felt dry; his heart beat stuttered for some reason.

“Good job,” he choked out.

Hinata nodded, mumbling some excuse and going to gather all of the balls around the court.

Kageyama’s gaze swept elsewhere; he met eyes with Tanaka, who caught himself from staring and moved to continue cleaning up.  Kageyama swallowed.  Tanaka knew what that was, perhaps even more than Kageyama did.

When they were done cleaning up, and Hinata had already said goodbye, Kageyama returned to the locker room and found Tanaka and Nishinoya engaging in hushed whispers that Kageyama couldn’t even pretend weren’t about him.  They both looked up at the sound of his entry, and he cleared his throat.

“Um, Tanaka-senpai, about earlier–”  He chewed his lip, knowing he needed confirmation. “What did you see?”

Tanaka blinked, as if surprised that Kageyama had actually decided to approach him. He glanced at Nishinoya, who shrugged, before turning back to Kageyama. “You tried to kiss Hinata,” he mumbled, quiet for perhaps the first time in his life.  "Right?“

Kageyama ducked his head, suddenly ashamed.  "I’m sorry,” he muttered, to no one in particular.  "Do you think he’ll be mad at me?“

Tanaka and Nishinoya exchanged a glance.  After a tense moment, Nishinoya spoke up, smile wide and kind.  "Actually, Kageyama, I think you should try again.”

Kageyama blinked, watching the sincerity behind Nishinoya’s expression.  After a minute, he nodded, taking the words to heart, and bid the two of them thanks.

He didn’t get to try again that day, or the next, or even during the following week.  He didn’t get to kiss Hinata when they made it to Nationals, screaming and jumping into his arms.  He didn’t get to kiss Hinata when Hinata passed his exams at the end of their first year, happily thrusting the papers into his face.  He didn’t get to kiss Hinata when Hinata tugged on his sleeve the night before summer break, mumbling a “ _Have a happy summer_ ,” that seemed to mean much more.

In fact, when he did get the chance to try again, it wasn’t particularly romantic or planned-out or any of those picture-perfect moments.  He did it with the knowledge that he hadn’t wanted to kiss a boy all those months ago, and he still didn’t want to kiss just _a boy._ It was only Hinata who he wanted to kiss. (That, in particular, had taken him a while to realize.  He didn’t tend to think about these things too often.)

Hinata was yelling something when it happened–which he always was, but this time was decidedly _not_ Kageyama’s fault–waving his hands around and taking one step too far into Kageyama’s face.  Kageyama didn’t think, much like the last time.  He mirrored Hinata’s step, scowl frozen in concentration, and Hinata took it as a challenge.  When Hinata reached forward to grab his collar, Kageyama kissed him.

It was as simple as that, Kageyama figured.  There were other details too–the way Hinata blinked at him, face a bright crimson; the awe-struck way he whispered “That’s _what it feels like?”_ as if it was something completely normal to have happened; the sheepish grin that lit up his face as he tugged on Kageyama’s collar, pulling him back down again.

 _I never want to kiss anyone but you_ , Kageyama thought, before the gentle curve of Hinata’s lips against his told him the words had been voiced.

“Me too.”


	35. Asanoya

"You want to do _what_?"

Nishinoya blinks over at Asahi, tilting his head in confusion. He squeezes Asahi's hand, tugging it along to make sure Asahi keeps up with his pace. Nishinoya’s always been cautious, especially as they navigate the dark streets."I want to get a tongue piercing, and I want you to come with me."

Asahi makes a whining noise, placing his free hand to his head."That's what I thought you said, but I was hoping you hadn't.Noya, why do I have to come?"

Nishinoya scoffs, as if the answer is obvious."Because you're my boyfriend?"He grins, nudging Asahi with his shoulder."Maybe I want emotional support."

"I'll give you emotional support," Asahi says, eyebrows raised."But that doesn't mean I have to go in the tattoo parlor."

"Well, why not?"

Asahi shifts uncomfortably, glancing left and right across the street before leading Nishinoya across."Because," he starts, avoiding Nishinoya's gaze. He lowers his voice, chewing his lip. "It's scary! I bet tons of dangerous people go in there."

Nishinoya barks out a loud laugh."Asahi," he crows, drawing out the last syllable in his name."I'll protect you! I promise."

Asahi puffs out his cheeks, glancing to the sky as if to say, _Why me?_ After a long moment (one full of Nishinoya's various pokes in his sides and kisses pressed to his shoulder, since Nishinoya can't reach his cheek), he lets all his breath out in a giant sigh, relenting."Fine."Nishinoya inflates, squeezing his fingers tightly within his own, and Asahi cuts off his excitement with a raised finger."But I want you to take something into consideration."

Nishinoya nods, eyes wide."'Course. Anything."

Asahi chews his lip, feeling his face heat up.He bends down to press a kiss to Nishinoya's cheek, casually murmuring, "It takes, like, two months for tongue piercings to heal."Nishinoya furrows his brows in confusion, and so Asahi elaborates, "That means no kissing."

Asahi watches with an amused (if not slightly embarrassed) smile as Nishinoya's eager expression dissolves into one of horror. "No," he whispers."No way.That can't-- Okay, change of plans."

Asahi straightens. "We're not going to the tattoo parlor?" he attempts, hopeful.

Nishinoya swings their entwined hands wide, recovering a small skip in his step."What? No. We're still going, I think I'll just get that eyebrow piercing I've been wanting instead." He nuzzles his cheek up against Asahi's shoulder, much like a cat. Asahi thinks it’s rather cute."Maybe you should get your ears pierced, too."

At Asahi's noise of distress, he laughs, lifting their hands and pressing a kiss to Asahi's knuckles."Too much?"

Asahi nods, clutching at his stomach to combat the sick feeling that comes to be at the thought of a needle anywhere near him.

Nishinoya hums in response."Maybe next time then?"

Asahi swallows, glancing down at the hopeful puppy dog expression with which Nishinoya looks at him.It's not intentional, he knows; Nishinoya would never try to pressure him into something like that.But it works nonetheless.He nods after a moment, relishing in the bright grin that spreads across Nishinoya's cheeks."Yeah, maybe next time."


	36. Kiyoyachi

It’s the last day of Yachi’s first, and–more importantly–Kiyoko’s last year of high school.  It’s early morning, but still hot, and Yachi can only count the hours in her head until Kiyoko has to go to her graduation ceremony, and then she’s done.  In a subtle gesture, anything to get more time with Kiyoko, Yachi suggests stopping for a cold snack, and Kiyoko agrees to a popsicle.  

The silence as they check out at the old convenience store along their walking route is bittersweet, and the words Yachi plans to say makes her lose focus.

“Hitoka-chan,” Kiyoko prompts, and hands Yachi a popsicle with a soft smile.  She pulls her bag higher up on her shoulder, taking a step towards the door, and Yachi follows her back out into the early summer heat.  Placing her bag down on the ground beside her, Kiyoko takes a seat on the curb.  Yachi watches her fingers nimbly unwrap the popsicle, folding the wrapper neatly on the ground.  

Kiyoko tilts her head up slightly, taking in the sun–and the sun has always looked favorably on Kiyoko. Yachi knows from months of watching the way it reflects off her dark hair, brightens her pale complexion.  When the occasion is special enough to warrant one of her rare smiles, Yachi knows they’re even brighter than the sun, too.

Kiyoko takes her first taste of the popsicle, lips curving slightly at the corners in an expression of bliss.  It’s then when Yachi realizes she’s still standing, watching Kiyoko eat the popsicle like some sort of creep.  She’s heard rumors of Kiyoko slapping Nishinoya, and fears that what she’s doing right now is similar to what he might’ve done.  Kiyoko thinking she’s creepy is the last thing she needs on graduation day.

Before Yachi can make her feet move and sit, Kiyoko glances back, long eyelashes fanning across her cheek before she moves her gaze upward.  The popsicle slides from her lips, and she asks, “Hitoka-chan? Is everything alright?”

Yachi squeezes her fists by her side.  She nods–no, Kiyoko might get the wrong idea from that–and then shakes her head rapidly, hair fluttering out around her face.  "Um,“ Yachi starts, and swallows.  Her cheeks burn; she knows it’s not from the sun.  "Kiyoko-senpai–”

Kiyoko tilts her head slightly in confusion, gently patting the curb beside her.  Yachi takes the cue and sits, folding her skirt gently beneath her and wringing her hands in her lap.  "I told you that you can call me Shimizu,“ murmurs Kiyoko, words bordering on hesitant.

Yachi nods vigorously, keeping her gaze fixed on her lap.  "Shimizu-senpai,” she begins, chewing on her lip.  Maybe haste is her friend, she thinks.  If she speaks fast, she’ll have the satisfaction of having said _it_ , but there’s still the chance that Kiyoko won’t hear it.  She nods to herself once more.  Perfect.  "I really like you,“ she whispers, too fast for anyone to have been able to understand.

Kiyoko only dips her head closer, eyes wide and face tilted slightly as if to hear better.  "Hitoka-chan?” she prompts.

Yachi glances up from her lap, making the mistake of glancing at Kiyoko, a mere few inches away.  She could kiss her, that’s how close she is, but she knows she wouldn’t.  She’s not that brave, and–god forbid–she wouldn’t want to offend Kiyoko. But Kiyoko’s eyes are wide and pretty and _open_ , and the sincerity gives Yachi a boost of confidence.   _This is Kiyoko_ , she reminds herself. _Kiyoko wouldn’t hate me_.

Yachi licks her lips nervously, gaze flickering away skittishly.  "I really like you,“ she says slowly.  "And I wanted to tell you that, before you go away after graduation.”  Yachi takes another breath, letting her eyes flutter shut for a final moment of peace before turning back to Kiyoko. “Because I’m scared I won’t be able to see you again, and that you’ll never know how amazing I think you are.”

Kiyoko stares, expression unguarded.  Her eyebrows furrow slightly, as if confused.  "Hitoka–“  A large chunk from her popsicle drops, spreading a trail of sticky blue across the back of Kiyoko’s hand.  Kiyoko sucks in her breath, dropping the rest of the popsicle and reaching for a napkin in her bag.

Yachi crumbles, heart beating fast as she buries her face in her lap.   _Don’t finish that sentence.  Please finish that sentence. Don’t– Please–_ She lets out a nervous squeak into her skirt.

Yachi feels a hand on her back, soft and delicate fingers pressing just firmly enough against her shoulder. She snaps her head up, ready to mutter a million apologies, but Kiyoko stills her with a soft kiss to her forehead, fingers brushing back into her hair. Her lips are soft, if not the slightest bit sticky from the popsicle, and Yachi feels her heart beat like a billion firecrackers going off in her chest.

When Kiyoko pulls back, wide eyes scanning every part of Yachi’s face, she says, "I’m not going anywhere, alright?”

Yachi nods, breathless.

“I’m just going to college here in Miyagi,” she elaborates. After a moment, her lips curve into one of her dazzling smiles.  "I don’t want to leave you, ever.“ Her fingers brush back Yachi’s bangs, tucking the soft strands behind her ears.

Words have never been Yachi’s strong point, but now more than ever, language feels like a foreign concept.  "Y-yes,” she says hastily, nodding.  "That– Yes, that would be nice.  For you to stay.  A-and for me to be with you. If that’s alright.“

Kiyoko’s smile widens, her eyes crinkling around the edges and a light blush coloring her cheeks.  She reaches out, slowly freeing one of Yachi’s hands and twining their fingers. "That would be better than alright.”


	37. Yakulev

“This isn’t working.” Yaku’s voice is tainted with poorly concealed disgust and frustration as he steps back, releasing Lev’s hand.

 

“But, Yaku-san, wait!” Lev protests."It’ll be fine, c’mon.Everyone loves dancing!“

 

"Yes, Lev, but–” Yaku gestures between the two of them, growing a tad bit quieter."The two of us are–you see–hm.“He covers his mouth with hand, glancing down.

 

Lev cocks his head to the side."You’re too short and I’m too tall?”

 

Yaku’s gaze snaps up faster than any of his receives; Lev has to resist the urge to laugh and accepts the swift (yet soft; Yaku’s punches have gotten much softer over the past few months) punch to his side."Don’t call me short,“ Yaku hisses, and goes back to his fretting over the situation at hand.

 

"Okay, okay,” Lev assures, and then thinks for a moment."How about you stand on my feet and we can dance that way?“

 

Yaku rolls his eyes."I’m not standing on your feet like little girls do with their fathers.And, by the way, I’m the only one of us that knows how to waltz.Did you forget that?”

 

“Oh.Then, how about I stand on your feet–?”

 

Yaku stares at him incredulously."Do you want me to break my feet?“

 

Lev covers his mouth with his hand, eyes twinkling in mirth.“Hey, take this seriously,” Yaku attempts, jabbing him in the ribs.Lev waves a hand, attempting to placate him, but Yaku can’t ignore the muffled giggles he hears from behind his hand.Lev’s laughter is contagious (a fact that he _hates;_ it’s so hard to stay mad at him nowadays), and Yaku finds his scowl wavering.

 

“You’re the one who asked me to teach you how to dance.”Yaku shakes his head.“Why am I doing this again? Clearly you don’t appreciate all the time and effort I’m putting into—“

 

Lev reaches a hand out, twining his fingers with Yaku’s and tugging him forward once more.“C’mon, I’m sorry,” he says, voice softening like it always does when it’s just the two of them.Yaku’s starting to recognize it more often, partially because he realized he does it when he talks to Lev as well, and partially because Kuroo constantly points it out as “flirting.”Speaking softly doesn’t mean they’re flirting with each other, Yaku thinks (and always says to Kuroo when he brings it up), but the lingering touches and long-held glances say otherwise.Agreeing to teach Lev how to dance speaks volumes.

 

Yaku likes Lev.Lev likes him back.They say all of that without words.

 

Yaku chews his lip.“Put your other hand on my waist,” he says.

 

“And where does your hand go?”

 

“On your shoulder.”

 

“Can you even reach my shoulder?”

 

Lev snickers, accepting the punch that Yaku sends his way.A frown forms on Yaku’s lips, but is quickly replaced by a rueful grin that he conceals by ducking his head into Lev’s shirt, face pressed against the soft fabric covering his chest. _If he comments about my height one more time, I’ll kick him_ , he reasons, but he figures even Lev must know his limits.

 

Lev hums contentedly, causing Yaku to glance up.“What?”

 

“Nothing,” Lev says, and it’s too quick to be true; his grin is too blissful, the look in his eyes almost _reverent_.He could be scared to speak again, Yaku thinks, and feels a bit bad for the past few punches (even if they were rightfully earned).Maybe the kid doesn’t want to be punched again. 

 

Yaku settles on a frown, and a question.“Why do you even need to learn the waltz?”

 

Lev hums again, this time thoughtful.His hand is firm around Yaku’s waist as he tugs him forward once more, the message clear. _Put your head back_.Yaku does so, silently enjoying the warmth, the fluttering of Lev’s heartbeat beside his ear. 

 

“I needed to know how to waltz, so I could ask you to dance,” he says, and it’s the kind of backwards logic that only Lev could possibly follow.It makes Yaku want to laugh.It makes him want to kiss him, too.

 

He settles for simply squeezing Lev’s hand once, before guiding it down to his waist and leaving it there.Locking both of his own hands behind Lev’s head, it’s no longer a waltz, but rather a glorified swaying hug.He doesn’t mind, however, and Lev doesn’t seem to mind either.

 

He could point out how they’re already dancing, but that seems facetious.Instead, he looks up at Lev with a teasing smile, and asks, “And why do you want to ask me to dance so badly?”

 

Lev blinks.“So it’d be romantic when I kissed you.”

 

He says it like it’s common sense, like that’s the only possible reason they’d ever be dancing—which, considering them, is likely true, but still.Yaku feels his cheeks burn. 

 

“W-we’re already dancing,” he prompts.

 

Lev’s grin widens.“We are,” he says, and takes the hint.


	38. Kyouhaba

Yahaba’s used to Kyoutani complaining about things.One might even say he’s become a bit of an expert at dealing with an irritated Kyoutani (after all, all of the first and second years always leave him to Yahaba whenever he shows any burgeoning signs of annoyance).He’s grown accustomed to each of his moods, his ticks, everything that sets him off. 

And yet, sometimes there are new things that he wouldn’t have expected to bother him.When Kyoutani stomps up to him one day during lunch, when Yahaba’s enjoying what should be a relaxing break in the courtyard, all Yahaba can do is sigh and ask, “What now?”He’s not expecting the response to be, “A mother dragged her daughter away from me today.”

Yahaba sits up, eyebrows raised.“ _That’s_ bothering you?’

“Yeah. ‘Cause I don’t get it,” Kyoutani grumbles, dutifully taking his seat beside Yahaba.

Yahaba resists an urge to laugh, and a—possibly more frustrating—urge to reach out and smooth the furrow between Kyoutani’s brows with his thumb.He clenches his fingers into a fist.“Well, you’re an asshole,” he points out oh-so-helpfully.

Kyoutani’s scowl snaps over to him in an instant.“You’re a bigger asshole than I am,” he snaps.“And that’s beside the point; I didn’t even _do_ anything this time.”

“You looked scary.That’s enough to scare a poor mother away from—hey, what were you doing, anyways?”

Kyoutani’s scowl grows skittish, and he glances away from Yahaba.“Doesn’t matter.”

_That_ catches Yahaba’s attention.He leans closer, eyebrows raised in a self-satisfied expression he wears when he gets useful information—or when he’s about to.“Don’t clam up on me now,” he teases, pushing on Kyoutani’s shoulder.Earlier, he might’ve been scared Kyoutani would push him back.That fear’s passed by now; he knows Kyoutani is just a big puppy deep down. (He tries not to find it endearing.He really, really tries.)

Kyoutani grunts, rolling his eyes.“I was working.”

“Working…?”

Kyoutani scoffs.“ _Working_ ,” he repeats with an air of finality.He levels a glare in Yahaba’s direction once more.“Fuck off.”

“Language,” Yahaba advises.(He’s found, over the past months, that that annoys Kyoutani the most, because Yahaba’s been known to have a mouth just as bad as him.Kyoutani hates hypocrisy.)

Kyoutani raises an eyebrow, thoroughly amused as he repeats, “Fuck. Off.”

“Why won’t you tell me?” 

“Why do I have to?”

“ _Sharing_ and _communication_ are wild concepts that _friends_ use,” Yahaba enunciates like he’s speaking to a child. Bumping Kyoutani’s shoulder with his own, he holds up a finger.“I’m Yahaba. I work in a convenience store. Now it’s your turn.”

Kyoutani grimaces, staring out at nothing in particular just to avoid Yahaba’s curious look.“Hi, Yahaba, I’m Kyoutani.” He pauses, looking to be in genuine pain for one second.“I work at a flower stand.”

Yahaba can’t conceal his surprise; his eyebrows skyrocket, jaw gaping wide.“You _what_?”

“A flower stand,” Kyoutani snaps.“I sell roses to couples and tourists and anyone else who wants a goddamn flower for no reason.”

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah, it’s so funny.Shut the fuck up.”

Yahaba waves a hand.It somehow lands on Kyoutani’s shoulder.He doesn’t move it.“No, I mean, you _applied_ for that job? Someone _hired_ you?”

“My uncle,” Kyoutani replies, glancing sideways at Yahaba’s hand but making no effort to move it.“My uncle hired me.I needed money.”

“Cute.” 

It slips out before Yahaba can help it.Kyoutani’s eyes widen, nostrils flaring in a look of surprise that Yahaba isn’t sure is funny or scary.He stares for a moment, until his trademark scowl returns.“Don’t patronize me.”

Yahaba swallows.“I wasn’t,” he admits, sighing.He drops his hand from Kyoutani’s shoulder, mind scrambling to do the next thing he does best: deflect.“Hey, maybe you should—“

“I could bring you a flower sometime. If you want, I mean.” 

When Yahaba turns out of pure shock, Kyoutani’s looking away, but the tips of his ears are a telltale dark pink.Yahaba bites his lip, unable to stop the smile that forms there. 

“Don’t patronize me,” he attempts, on the off-chance it’s a joke and his heartbeat is quickening for no reason.

Kyoutani glances over, eyebrows furrowed but face somehow still soft.This time, Yahaba does reach over, smoothing the wrinkles between his brows with his thumb.“I wasn’t.”He catches Yahaba’s hand within his own, and then seems to realize his actions, abruptly releasing it.“I—I’ll get you a stupid flower, because you seem like you’d be into stupid shit.”

Yahaba ignores the insult.“Maybe I am.”

Kyoutani nods, throat muscles working as he swallows.“Alright.”He tries to glance away quickly, but—Yahaba gasps; is that a _smile_ he sees?He leans closer, slinging an arm over Kyoutani’s shoulder.He is smiling, after all, and Yahaba knows seeing Kyoutani smile shouldn’t be _that_ big of a deal, but—

“Maybe if you smiled like that you wouldn’t scare away poor mothers and their children,” he advises, poking Kyoutani’s cheek.

Kyoutani swats his hand away, bucking his shoulder in an attempt to move Yahaba off.The smile disappears as quickly as it had appeared, signature scowl returning. (Yahaba doesn’t feel very disappointed; he has high hopes of making it resurface sometime soon.)

“My smile is—“ Kyoutani shrugs.

“Cute,” interrupts Yahaba.“Very cute.”

Kyoutani’s cheeks color.“Fuck off,” he says again, but this one sounds like a compliment.


	39. Iwaoi

Hajime should know by now that studying with Oikawa (and, on occasion, Hanamaki and Matsukawa) is pointless.  Really, it’s only been three years and somehow he still gets roped into it, promises of ramen in the back of his mind, as if he’s only capable of thinking through his stomach. (It works, he has to admit.  It’s just too bad the other three all know it.)

Oikawa slings an arm over his shoulder, distracting him from the words of his textbook just before they all start to blend together.  He had been saying something, probably, but Hajime hadn’t cared enough to listen.  

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, if not the slightest bit huffily.  "Pay attention to me.“

"Shut up and study.”

“But it’s _boring_.  We already talked about this stuff in class, why do I have to read it?”

“Because we have a test on it.  Now _shut up_ , Oikawa.”

Matsukawa and Hanamaki snicker from across the library table, Hanamaki sticking out his lower lip in a pout and cooing, “But _Iwa-chan_ , it’s _boring_.”

Hajime glances up at the two of them, eyebrows raised.  He nudges Tooru with his elbow, saying, “Hey, look.  Someone who shares your opinions.  I’m sure they’d be more than willing to pay attention to you.”

Hanamaki’s smirk slips.  Oikawa slides his gaze warily over to the two of them, eyes narrowed in distrust before he turns back to Hajime.  "They’re mean to me,“ he whispers, words hot in Hajime’s ear.

"We can hear you,” says Matsukawa.

“Loud and clear,” echoes Hanamaki.

Oikawa turns, sticking his tongue out at the two of them.  "Hey, Iwa–“

Hajime’s eyes widen at his textbook, his mouth forming a small ‘o’.  "Well, would you look at that?” he murmurs in amusement.

Oikawa sits straighter, leaning closer in an attempt to see what’s on the page that’s so interesting.  "What?  What is it?“

Hajime yanks the book out of his sight, scowling down at him, and instead shows it to Hanamaki.  "Do you see that?”

Hanamaki places a hand to his mouth, eyebrows skyrocketing into his hair.  "Wow,“ he gasps.

That piques Tooru’s interest.  He scrambles for the book, leaning into Hajime’s space and reaching, but Hajime pushes him away with a hand to his head.  Oikawa titters, smacking his hand off and attempting to reassemble his perfected coif.  Matsukawa leans into Hanamaki’s space, making a pleased noise of assent.  "Good find,” he murmurs in approval.

Oikawa glares at the three of them.  "What is it, you guys?“ he whines.

Matsukawa taps the page, adjusting his reading glasses.  "It says right here that you’re a little bitch.”

Oikawa’s face goes from curiosity to pure annoyance in one second; Hajime watches in amusement as his nose crinkles, brows furrowing and cheeks puffing up to form that perfect pout.  "It’s amazing the things you learn when you actually study,“ he teases, reaching into Oikawa’s space to flick his forehead.

Oikawa feigns confidence, tilting his chin upward as a smirk spreads across his cheeks.  "You three are just jealous that I’m gonna get a better grade on this exam than all of you.”

Hajime’s eyes narrow, trying to ignore the accuracy of that statement.  "Fuck off,“ he grumbles, turning back to his textbook.

Oikawa snickers, leaning closer to rest his chin on Hajime’s shoulder, his eyes scanning the textbook along with Hajime. "I could _help_ you, if you think you could manage to get any of the information through that thick skull of yours.”

“Oi.”

“What? I’m serious, we could go back to my place.” Oikawa’s fingers trace along Hajime’s forearm, voice sugary sweet in his ear.  "I could help you _plenty_.“

"Still right here,” Matsukawa informs the two of them, and Hajime looks up to see Hanamaki clasping his hands, face twisted in a horrifying kissy face that Hajime’s ashamed to admit _does_ kind of look like Oikawa.

Hajime sighs, ignoring them.  "That doesn’t sound like you’d be helping me study, Oikawa.“

One of Oikawa’s hands drops below the table, squeezing Hajime’s knee with fingers far too nimble for Hajime’s good.  "Maybe not.”

Hajime chews his lip.  Is any of this information even relevant? Is blankly staring at a textbook worth it?  He _wants_ to say yes, of course, but– Oikawa’s hand travels upwards, stretching across his thigh. “I give up,” Hajime announces, slamming his textbook shut with an air of finality.  "I’m going home.“

Oikawa claps his hands together excitedly in response, leaning back to allow Hajime to pack up his things.

"Oh, Iwaizumi Hajime, you weak, weak man,” responds Hanamaki, shaking his head sadly in fake disappointment.

Hajime shoves his books into his bag, pushing his chair back.  "Yeah, yeah, shut up now, thanks.“

"You’re gonna fail,” chides Hanamaki in a sing-song voice.

“Hey, Makki, don’t say that,” Matsukawa buts in, elbowing Hanamaki’s upper arm lightly.  All three turn to look at him, surprised by his seriousness, and watch as a smirk spreads across his cheeks.  "He won’t be getting the F; he’ll be getting the D.“

Hajime groans, slinging his backpack over his shoulder as Hanamaki bursts into laughter.  “I’m not friends with you.  I don’t know you.  We’ve never met,” he repeats like a mantra, turning to go and letting Oikawa latch a hand onto his arm, pretending to ignore the wink he throws in their direction.


	40. Ennotana

“Chikara!”

 

It’s late, and maybe he’s tired, but at first thought, the image of Tanaka speed-walking down the hallway towards him, wearing nothing but mismatched socks and a plaid pair of pajama pants, is no more than a mere mirage.Chikara brings a hand to his eye, in an attempt to rub the sleep out of it, and raises his eyebrows in surprise as Tanaka doesn’t disappear, but rather, gets closer.At an alarming rate.He opens his mouth to say something—ask where Tanaka’s shirt is, chide him for being up so late because it _must_ be past midnight, question as to why Tanaka’s even out of his training camp room—but Tanaka’s upon him, grabbing his arm and tugging him into the nearest closet before he can even get a word out.

 

“What—wait—Tanaka, what are you doing?” Chikara questions, eyes widening in the dark.He can make out nothing more than his surroundings in the nearest square foot, most of which consist of—well, Tanaka, a wall to his back, and more Tanaka.

 

Tanaka’s breathing slightly hard, and Chikara can’t see his expression much, eyes having yet to adjust to the darkness of what must be a supply closet.“We’re hiding from the authorities,” he explains, laughter evident in his voice.

 

Chikara raises an eyebrow.“The authorities?”

 

“Eh, you know, the training camp authorities—Daichi, mostly.You’re my hostage.”There’s movement in front of him; Chikara assumes Tanaka’s leaning against the door to hear the other side.

 

Chikara takes a deep breath, resisting the urge to pinch his nose between his fingers in annoyance, because that would mean having to move his hand from where it’s sandwiched between himself and Tanaka’s bare chest.He’s not sure if Tanaka even notices the proximity, and that’s fine by him.Getting hot and bothered is an issue he has _no_ problem keeping secret.

 

“ _Why_ ,” he begins, each word deliberate, “am I your hostage?”

 

“Because if Daichi’s looking for me, and he comes asking you if you’d seen me, what would you say?”Chikara remains silent, and Tanaka snickers, breath fanning out across Chikara’s cheeks.“Yep.You’re too good for your own good, Chikara.”

 

Chikara can’t tell the difference between teasing and a compliment; with Tanaka, it’s even harder.“What’d you even do?” he whispers.Why is he whispering?Would he _actually_ care if Tanaka got caught by Daichi? The most Daichi would do is make him run extra laps, clean up more after practice.(Deep down, he knows why.Tanaka’s skin is _so_ warm, and it’s not like he gets this chance everyday.)

 

Tanaka turns; their noses bump, and Tanaka laughs again, this time sounding almost nervous.“Yuu and I—we, uh—we were dicking around, you know? Playing truth and dare with Narita and Kinnoshita—which, Chikara, you need to play with us sometime, it’s great—and Yuu got dared to scare the Fukurodani girls’ team, and—“

 

Chikara shakes his head.(It might be his imagination, but he could swear his hair brushes against Tanaka’s forehead.Tanaka isn’t even an inch taller than him, and really, he doesn’t know whether to hate that or thank his lucky stars for it.) 

 

“Don’t.I don’t want to hear it after all.I’m already too involved.”

 

Tanaka pauses, and then laughs again.“Like I said, you’re my hostage.”

 

“Hostage implies unwilling.”He has to take a moment to process those words, and is immediately grateful for the darkness of the closet, because he’s sure his blush must be telling.Hastily, he continues, “I’m basically just an accomplice now.”

 

Tanaka doesn’t have time to reply, because suddenly his name is being called out in the hall.The startling loudness makes Chikara flinch, his hand flattening against Tanaka’s stomach and nose bumping Tanaka’s cheek. “Sorry,” he whispers, and then holds his breath as footsteps near the door.

 

“Tanaka!” 

 

Daichi sounds exhausted—which is reasonable, considering the time, but Chikara has to bite back a chuckle nonetheless.“Please, just—“The sigh Daichi heaves in the hall outside the closet rivals that of Chikara’s mom, when she’s really tired.“Return the girls’ coach’s wig!”

 

Chikara gasps, but Tanaka shakes his head rapidly as if to say, _That was not me!_ The two of them hold their breaths, Chikara struggling not to laugh.

 

Daichi’s footsteps fade, and their breath escapes them in a giant _whoosh_.It’s then that Chikara recalls his hand pressed against the warm (toned) skin of Tanaka’s stomach, and he pulls it back like it was burned.“Sorry,” he breathes, and at the same time, Tanaka says, “I didn’t—“

 

Something shifts in the closet, and Chikara tries not to wince at the sound of something hitting Tanaka’s back.“Ow, _fuck_ ,” Tanaka hisses.

 

Chikara makes an attempt to step back, but the wall is there.A step to the left, and he’ll send a pair of brooms toppling down.A step to the right, and the door just might open from the force.

 

Tanaka steps forward instead, and Chikara feels a pair of lips against his—soft, at first, but Tanaka jerks out of surprise, and their teeth clack together.The pressure disappears almost immediately, 

 

“Shit—“

 

“Sorry—“

 

“I didn’t—“

 

Chikara swallows, groping blindly to his right until his hand closes around the doorknob.He pushes, panicked, and the door swings open, showering them in light as Chikara stumbles out.The decision is, ultimately, regrettable; he is now free from the all-too-distracting proximity, but his expression is, for once, completely readable under the light.

 

Tanaka shuts the door softly behind them, and Chikara hears him clear his throat.He wheels around, words on the tip of his tongue (what does he want to say, even?Sorry for the twentieth time?I hope this doesn’t mess up our friendship?Kiss me again?), but stops when he notes Tanaka’s expression, and the dusting of pink across his cheeks.

 

“We don’t speak of this, alright, Chikara?”

 

Chikara’s mind shuts down, heart quickening its pace. _Fuck_ , he thinks, which is unusual, especially for him.

 

Tanaka glances up, eyes widening at the sight of Chikara’s expression, and he practically lunges forward, hands held up in a placating manner.“No, shit, sorry!We don’t talk about the whole accomplice thing, ya know?The crime dies with us, tonight.”

 

“Yeah,” Chikara agrees, smiling softly.He cuffs Tanaka in the shoulder.“But it’s a one-time thing, alright?Just because you caught me in a good mood.I’m turning you into the authorities next time.”

 

Tanaka laughs, as if he wouldn’t expect anything else.Chikara watches him for a moment, debating asking.Tanaka beats him to it.

 

“But, uh, as for that other thing, you know—“

 

Chikara swallows.

 

“We could, maybe, if you wanted, try that again.Make it more than a one-time thing.”Tanaka rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, and it’s perhaps the most tame Chikara’s ever seen him. 

 

He swallows again.“Yeah,” he breathes, shaking his head slightly as if to rid himself of this dazed feeling.“That’d be—“He nods.

 

Tanaka quirks an eyebrow, grinning, and ducks his head.Before Chikara can process what’s happening, Tanaka’s lips are against his own, and—yes, he thinks; this time he _can_ acknowledge it as a kiss, not a mere brush of lips, because that’s what it is.And Tanaka’s lips are soft, too, which Chikara feels doesn’t suit him, not when his laugh, his voice, his attitude is all so loud.And yet, somehow, it works better than he could’ve imagined.

 

When Tanaka takes the inevitable step back, Chikara figures he must look as pink as could be.But Tanaka’s smiling—a shy something that Chikara’s not used to seeing on the court, and he realizes, belatedly, that it’s just for _him_. 

 

It’s late, and maybe he’s tired, but at first thought, the image of Tanaka smiling _that_ smile and leaning down to kiss him once more is no more than a mere mirage.But Tanaka’s warmth, the curve of his smile pressed against Chikara’s lips, the hesitant hand on his waist—it’s all very real. He feels the tug on his cheeks, and realizes that he’s smiling, too. 


	41. Kyouhaba

“Did you two do your thing?”

Yahaba has to pause to think for a second, because as far as he’s concerned, he’d just been telling Watari about one of his _most_ recent arguments with Kyoutani.  (They’d become much more frequent since Yahaba became captain, and sometimes Yahaba has trouble keeping track of them.)  “Our thing?” he questions, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Watari waves his hand in front of him.  “You know, your wall thing.”

Yahaba’s expression must be _especially_ blank, because Watari explains without being prompted.  “The thing you guys do when you argue where you push each other against a wall and we all pretend to not notice the tension?”

Yahaba’s jaw drops.  “There is not _tension_ ,” he hisses, and Watari holds up his hands in surrender.  “Especially not the kind you must be thinking of.”

“Hey, I’m just calling it as I see it,” Watari mumbles around a mouthful of his lunch.  “Er—how the whole team sees it.”  He shrugs, nudging Yahaba with an elbow and a wicked grin.  “Everyone except you two, I guess.”

* * *

Yahaba does see it, but only during the most inconvenient time: when he has two hands fisted in Kyoutani’s collar, tugging the fabric taut against his chest and returning Kyoutani’s venomous glare with his own.  (The wall’s there too, behind Kyoutani.  Apparently it always is.)

They don’t hate each other, Yahaba knows.  There had been some long-winded discussion near the end of last year, and they’d worked out some things—enough to know that there’s no hate, there is respect, and they just don’t get along.  Yahaba supposes it’s naive to think he can get along with everybody.

The fights aren’t about hate, or being mean without purpose (though he supposes they end up that way sometimes); they’re about improvements, in the strangest of ways.  Yahaba’s used to tight-lipped constructive criticisms to get his teammates to improve, but with Kyoutani, he can say exactly what comes to mind, and Kyoutani gives it to him right back.

It’s therapeutic.  They yell at each other, push each other around, glare at each other, and then—it’s over.  They go back to their ways.  Kyoutani behaves.  Yahaba throws better tosses.  And it lasts two days before they have another one.

Yahaba dares to say the fights are good.  

He _likes_ the fights.

He likes the venting, and the physicality.  He likes seeing Kyoutani’s face up-close, all anger and passion and stubbornness.  In some ways, Kyoutani reminds him of himself, because everything he spends so much time trying to conceal is written plainly across Kyoutani’s face at any given time of day.  Yahaba is angry, and no one but Kyoutani knows it.  Kyoutani is often kind, and no one but Yahaba knows that.

And then there’s the physical aspect of Kyoutani’s face that he likes.  Kyoutani’s got really warm eyes, when get you get close enough to see them—a kind of honey brown that contrasts the black surrounding them.  Yahaba still doesn’t understand the eyeliner, but yet again, he’s never really asked.  (Besides, it _works_ , doesn’t it?)

Kyoutani’s also got really nice lips.  They’re the kind of lips that are really full (not that anyone would ever see, because he’s always got them pressed into an angry line), and Yahaba finds himself looking at them more often than not during what Watari refers to as “their wall thing.”  They infuriate Yahaba a little bit, because they must be really soft, and that would probably mean they’re nice to kiss.

Kyoutani’s probably a good kisser.

At that thought, Yahaba yanks his hands back in a motion sudden enough to cause those damned lips to part in surprise.

“What the fuck—?”

Yahaba’s mind draws a blank.  What were they arguing about?  He can’t even remember.  He gulps in a breath and steps back, turning so that Kyoutani can’t see his face.  “Do—do better next time,” he gambles, and stumbles out of the locker room, feeling Kyoutani’s eyes hot on his back.

* * *

“I’m fucked,” Yahaba announces, putting down his lunch and glaring out at nothing in particular.   _It’s your fault, too_ , he wants to add, because he probably wouldn’t have even noticed how kissable Kyoutani is (or how much Yahaba _wants_ to kiss him) if it weren’t for Watari.  Probably.

He groans, burying his face in his hands.   _Nope,_ he thinks.   _It was only a matter of time._

Watari quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t ask.  “Yeah,” he says after a long moment.  “You definitely are.”

Yahaba whines in response.

“But hey, I wouldn’t be so hopeless.  You’re not the tortured soul type,” Watari advises.  Yahaba can hear the crinkling of a snack wrapper, and then Watari’s voice is muffled, speaking around a mouthful of food.  “Plus, it’s not like he doesn’t look at you in the same way.”

Yahaba’s head pops up.  “He doesn’t—“ he starts, but the sincerity on Watari’s face gives him pause.  “He does?”

Watari shrugs.  “Give it time.  He’ll work up his courage.  And if not—“  His grin grows wicked, and Yahaba frowns weakly.  “Well, you could always shove him up against the wall again.”


	42. Kiyoyachi

 

Though she hasn’t known Kiyoko for long, Yachi’s capable of deducing that _she_ is the nervous one, and that Kiyoko is the infallible one.  So to see an expression that reads anything close to anxiety on Kiyoko’s face—well, Yachi is stunned.

“Would you mind staying with me after practice?” Kiyoko asks her, and Yachi’s mind goes into overdrive.  Is she in trouble?  Did she mess up something the last practice match?  Did she fill out the wrong form to give to Takeda the other day?  The possibilities of what she could’ve messed up are endless.

When she asks Sugawara about it later (because he seems reliable), nervously shifting from foot to foot, his face brightens in understanding.  “Oh!” he says, and smiles at Yachi.  “Shimuzu hears from her number one university at 5:00.  She probably wants you there for support, don’t you think?”

That makes perfect sense, Yachi realizes, after she checks the date and sees—yes, the university results come out today.  And so she calms her nerves (but only slightly, there’s still the off chance that Kiyoko might _not_ get in and then Yachi doesn’t know _what_ she would do, but—she can deal with that possibility later), and manages not to fumble with any volleyballs for the rest of practice.

When the boys all leave, and lock up, she follows Kiyoko to some stairs out back behind the school, where Yachi supposes no one would see them.  It’s probably because Kiyoko wants privacy in her news, Yachi tells herself, not because she’d want to be _alone-_ alone with Yachi.

Kiyoko pulls out her phone, typing out the address to the university results page.  “Good luck,” Yachi whispers, and Kiyoko smiles in response—something small, and nervous, but grateful—before turning back to the phone.

Out of her peripheral, Yachi sees the flash of light as the screen finishes loading.  She holds her breath.

Kiyoko stares at the phone screen for a long moment, eyes wide and lips parted in surprise.  Yachi resists the urge (and boy, is it hard) to lean over into Kiyoko’s space to see the screen herself, instead squeezing her hands together tightly in anxiety.  Is Kiyoko okay?  Yachi can’t tell; her face is so neutral most of the time. 

Yachi takes a breath.  “Kiyoko—“

Kiyoko blinks, turning to Yachi, and lets out a shaky, disbelieving laugh.  “I got in,” she says, her lips curving upwards as it sinks in.  “I got in.”

An excited squeal escapes Yachi’s lips, and she lunges forward immediately, capturing Kiyoko in a hug.  “I _knew_ you would,” she says, grin practically reaching her ears.  Oh, this is so _great_ , because Kiyoko will be happy, and she’ll have a great future, and—and her top university is less than an hour away from Karasuno.  (Yachi would be happy for her regardless, but that fact is an added bonus.)

Kiyoko laughs softly, still sounding a tad bit shocked, but her arms wrap around Yachi’s back, bringing a particular warmth that makes Yachi’s heart stutter.

For the longest time, Yachi has always loved hugging girls.  That isn’t to say that she doesn’t enjoy hugging boys, either; Hinata, and Kageyama, even, are _especially_ good huggers, but they never make her heart flutter like it does when she gets squeezed tightly but gently against her female peers.  There’s something different in the way girls hug; it’s basic science.  Girls are soft and warm, and make Yachi feel happy.

Kiyoko, as it turns out, is _exceptionally_ good at hugging.

Yachi hugs her back gladly, nose pressed somewhere in between the curve of her neck and her shoulder.  Kiyoko’s hair tickles her, a little bit, but she doesn’t mind; it smells _really_ good.   _Is this heaven?_ she wonders.  Has she died?  If that’s the case, she’s really glad she got to go to heaven, because she lied to her mom one time a few weeks ago, and that’s weighed on her mind constantly since then, but apparently she’s still good enough to get to heaven—

“Thank you for being here with me, Hitoka-chan,” Kiyoko says, “regardless of whether or not I got in.”

Yachi glances up, grinning.  “Oh, I knew you’d get in, though.  They’d have to be a _really_ dumb college to not let you in. I mean, I know you love the college a lot, so they can’t be _dumb_ , but if they didn’t let you in, then that’s a really bad _decision_ , and—”

Kiyoko laughs, and then leans forward, pressing her lips to the top of Yachi’s head.  When Yachi freezes, eyes going wide, Kiyoko leans back slightly.  One of her hands reaches up to hold the curve of Yachi’s cheek, and she smiles the prettiest smile Yachi’s ever seen.

“I’ll be so close next year,” she says, and Yachi nods as if she hasn’t spent hours on end thinking about that.

“Y-yes!” she says, nodding.  “Close enough that I can visit!”

Kiyoko’s grin widens.  “I’d like that,” she says.

“And,” Yachi starts, and gulps.  Was she really about to tell Kiyoko to kiss her?  No, _tell_ is too harsh a word; it’d be more like _asking_ — Was she going to ask Kiyoko to kiss her? _Is_ she going to ask Kiyoko to kiss her?  No, she thinks, she can’t do that, because that is _far_ too nerve-wracking, and what if Kiyoko says no?  She couldn’t possibly—

“Hitoka-chan,” Kiyoko says, and Yachi realizes suddenly that they’re still hugging, and Kiyoko’s hand is still very much touching her face.  There’s a strange, soft look in Kiyoko’s eyes, something she’s only seen before a few times before Kiyoko (usually) looks away.  But she doesn’t this time, so Yachi stares back.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Oh.”  Yachi blinks.  “O-oh.”  She nods rapidly.  “Yes.”

Kiyoko smiles, and leans forward, and when she kisses her—even if just for a moment—Yachi doesn’t feel so nervous anymore.


	43. Matsuhana

It starts simply to prove a point.

 

They're at a party, all in various states of drunkenness, and Oikawa's reaching the sixteenth minute of continual complaining (and yes, Matsukawa has his timer open on his phone, so Takahiro is certain it's been that long), saying so-and-so did this and such-and-such happened, and he's _so_  upset because of blah-blah-blah.  It's the usual dumb stuff that they're both used to hearing Oikawa complain about, until: "And then Iwa-chan kissed me!"

 

Takahiro hasn't been following the conversation at all; he blinks into attention at the statement and throws a hesitant glance in Matsukawa's direction, noting the equally confused and helpless glance Matsukawa sends back his way.  Taking a moment to collect his breath, Takahiro says, "What was that?"

 

The argument that follows is simple, and the sides that are taken are clear.  Oikawa, who Takahiro begrudgingly goes along with, says that kissing someone implies something _more_  than friends.  Matsukawa, on the other hand, says that kissing doesn't have to mean anything at all--and more importantly, that it doesn't have to _change_  anything between friends.  (Iwaizumi, for lack of presence, remains ambiguous.)

 

"But, Mattsun, how am I supposed to think it _doesn't_  mean anything?  If he kissed me, and it doesn't mean anything, am I just supposed to forget it?" Oikawa frowns, but it resembles a pout.

 

Matsukawa shrugs.  "I mean, do _you_  like him?"

 

Oikawa splutters something incomprehensible, and they pretend to ignore the obvious feelings beneath it.

 

Takahiro sighs.  "I mean, let's pretend Oikawa doesn't like Iwaizumi."  He ignores Oikawa's offended squeak.  "Does that mean Iwaizumi would kiss him without reason?"

 

"He was drunk," Oikawa supplies.

 

Matsukawa raises a finger in agreement.  "But that's not even the point.  The point is that is doesn't _have_  to have a reason, or implications.  Kissing is just--"  He shrugs.  "Kissing."

 

"So you would just kiss a friend and it wouldn't mean anything at all?"  Oikawa looks dubious, and Takahiro has to admit that his interest is piqued now.

 

Matsukawa raises an eyebrow, pointing his finger at--oh no, Takahiro realizes.  It's pointed at _him_.  "I'd kiss Makki.  Doesn't have to mean anything."

 

Oikawa takes his time with his response (and Takahiro loses his ability to _think_  of a response), twisting his mouth to the side, taking a slow sip of his drink, tossing his weight back and forth between his feet like he has to pee.  He looks confused for a while, then frustrated, and then--

 

Takahiro narrows his eyes.

 

"Prove it."

 

Matsukawa blinks, tilting his head.  "Sorry?"

 

Oikawa shrugs, going back to his vicious expression.  "Kiss Makki-chan.  Doesn't have to mean anything," he says in a terrible impression of Matsukawa.  (Takahiro's slightly disappointed; his impression of Iwaizumi is always  _so_  good.)

 

Matsukawa chews his lip, staring at Oikawa with concentration that reminds Takahiro of when he'd actually thought he had telekinetic powers in first year.

 

"Hold up."  Takahiro holds up a hand when he realizes that Matsukawa is _actually_  considering it. "Don't I get a say in this?  I'm on _your_  side, Oikawa.  The whole 'kissing means something' side."

 

"I mean, let's pretend Makki doesn't like Mattsun," Oikawa says, and--Takahiro gasps; how is Oikawa's impression of him so much better than Matsukawa's?

 

"If I'm gay for Makki, I'd just kiss him anyways, Oikawa," Matsukawa says with a shrug, tilting back his cup to finish whatever is left in it.

 

"So the argument is invalid?" Takahiro tries.

 

Matsukawa swoops over suddenly, slinging an arm across Takahiro's shoulder.  His lips press against Takahiro's cheek in a loud _smack_.  "Nah," he says in a laugh.  "Maybe I just want to kiss you."

 

Takahiro turns pink.  "Dude," he breathes.  "Kisses mean something in my book."

 

"Hey, it's not like they never do in mine.  For argument's sake, they don't have to.  But they _can_."  Matsukawa glances over at Oikawa, finally deciding to acknowledge the elephant in the room.  "Iwaizumi's on the same page as you guys, by the way."

 

"He..."  They both watch the gears turn in Oikawa's head, Takahiro almost sighing in pity at their dreadfully slow friend.  After a good almost-minute, he gasps, eyes brightening as he cries, "Iwa-chan!" and wanders off in search of his terribly-drunk and likely-passed-out friend.

 

Takahiro sighs.  "Young love."

 

"Mm.  Hope they use protection."

 

The weight of Matsukawa around is shoulder is heavy, but pleasant, so Takahiro can't find the energy to move him.  "Kisses still mean something to me, you know," he says slowly after a beat of silence.

 

Matsukawa clicks his tongue.  "Oh, yeah.  I know.  'S why I did that."

 

"You--"  Takahiro turns to glance at him, frowning in confusion.  "You're gay for me," he states blandly, less of a question than he's aiming for.

 

Matsukawa laughs.  "Guess you could say that."

 

"Oh," Takahiro breathes, and nods.  He chews his lip, deciding the previous progression of events isn't so bad after all.  "Alright, then."

 

"And you?"

 

Matsukawa grins, eyebrows raised expectantly.   _Well, kisses mean something_ , Takahiro thinks, because he really hates using words.  So he simply leans in, and spends the following twenty-three minutes (and yes, Matsukawa has his timer open on his phone, so Takahiro knows it's been that long) making  _certain_  the message gets across. 


	44. Bokuaka

Bokuto isn’t usually very good at picking up on social cues. Kuroo was the first one to point it out (though he shouldn’t be talking, because he’s really just as bad), mentioning casually that “Akaashi sure likes to spend time with him.”

And yes, Akaashi did, and does, and apparently they like each other quite a bit, which Bokuto is oh-so-pleased about, because he now gets to call Akaashi his _boyfriend_. Boyfriends or not, though, Kuroo’s point still stands. He simply isn’t very good at reading people, even if that person happens to be his boyfriend.

So when Akaashi shifts against his side one night, voice quiet and face hidden from view as he starts with a, “Bokuto,” Bokuto isn’t really sure how to respond. There’s a certain fragility to the words that Bokuto isn’t used to–not with the usual reprimands, the quiet but deadly snark that always gets him–and he doesn’t know what it means. Not to mention the very subtle lack of a honorific attached to his name, which gives him pause.

He hums, putting the TV remote on the couch beside him and shifting his arm to be able to run his fingers through Akaashi’s hair. Akaashi keeps his face turned, adding to the growing bubble of worry in Bokuto’s chest, but leans into the touch regardless. His other hand reaches out blindly; Bokuto knows that cue, at least, and grabs Akaashi’s hand in his.

“Next year,” Akaashi continues carefully. There’s a pause. Bokuto waits. “You’re—you’re graduating.“

Bokuto’s eyes widen. "Akaashi, are you—?”

"And you won’t be…here…anymore, so—” Bokuto shifts before Akaashi can finish his sentence, heart leaping into his throat at the words and praying he’s not _really_ trying to say what Bokuto thinks he is. He leans into Akaashi’s space, at his equally wide eyes, eyebrows creased in concern and a little bit of fear. “What’re you saying?”

Akaashi glances away, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. “I–” His eyes slide back to Bokuto’s once, fleeting, and– Bokuto’s lips part in surprise, taking a mental backpedal. _Oh_ , he thinks when he sees that telltale shiny wetness welling up in his eyes. _Akaashi’s the scared one._

“I—I just…have some concern, of course, about how it might, um, play out. Our relationship,“ Akaashi mumbles, his fingers squeezing against Bokuto’s.

Bokuto tuts quietly, leaning forward to nuzzle his nose against Akaashi’s cheek. He ignores Akaashi’s offended sound, because Akaashi’s ticklish everywhere, and it’s not a big deal at this point, and says, "Akaashi, I’m only gonna be an hour away next year, okay? And I know times are hard, and I’m gonna be poor, but— Yknow, even if I have to buy a train ticket every weekend to come see you, I’d do it.”

Akaashi stops his fidgeting from being tickled and hums, relaxing against Bokuto. “That’s a lot of money, Bokuto-san,” he says, voice admonishing, but Bokuto can feel the smile against his cheek.

He feels the sudden urge to defend his statement, and opens his mouth to do so, but Akaashi beats him to it, leaning his face back to see him. “I’ll buy half of the train tickets, and come see you too.”

Bokuto isn’t very apt at reading social cues, that’s for sure, but he knows a joke when he hears one. He laughs, ducking forward to press a kiss to Akaashi’s smile. “Man, I love you.”

Akaashi blinks, cheeks slowly turning crimson, and Bokuto fears he’s said something wrong for a moment. But then he buries his face in Bokuto’s shoulder. Bokuto feels the soft tickle of his hair against his cheek as Akaashi shakes in quiet laughter.

“You—oh, of _course_.“

"Huh?” And Bokuto is frustrated, suddenly, because he doesn’t understand what’s so funny—funny enough to make _Akaashi_ laugh.

Akaashi glances up, eyes crinkling in the corners because of how hard he’s smiling, and Bokuto is just a little bit in awe of how beautiful he is.

“I just thought it was an amusing way to say that for the first time.”

“For the first time?” Bokuto echoes.

Akaashi smiles, and reaches a hand up to cup Bokuto’s cheek. “I love you too,” he mumbles.

“Oh,” Bokuto breathes, eyes widening in the realization that he really did just say the L-word. And that Akaashi said the L-word _back_. His cheeks flame, and suddenly _he’s_ the embarrassed one.

“ _Akaashi_ ,” he whines, covering his face with his hands.  “You’re killing me.”

“I only said what you said to me.”

“I _know_.” Bokuto takes a breath, regaining some of whatever composure he’d first had, and peeks back out at Akaashi.  His eyes scan over his boyfriend’s face, memorizing all the tiny freckles and eyelashes and hints at a dimple.  “I think we’ll be okay next year.”

Akaashi hums slightly, reaching his hand out again; Bokuto takes it.  “Yes,” he says after a moment.  “I think so too.”


	45. Bokuroo

“So I’ve been thinking,” Bokuto starts.Tetsurou pretends to ignore the fact that it’s half past two in the morning—whether it’s the worst time or the perfect time for talking, he isn’t sure—and hums in acknowledgement, cracking open one eye.

 

Bokuto stares straight ahead at the flickering light of the muted television, eyebrows furrowed in intense concentration.He chews on his thumbnail absentmindedly.

 

“Akaashi’s really pretty, right?”

 

Tetsurou hums again, sleepily draping an arm over Bokuto’s waist and tugging him closer.

 

“Right, yeah.And so is Kenma.They’re both, like, really pretty.”He pauses, drifting into a bout of contemplative silence.

 

Tetsurou opens his eyes, craning his neck up to peer at Bokuto’s face.“Kou, your point,” he advises softly.

 

Bokuto nods.“If they’re— _them_ , and I’m—well, _me_ , then why do you—?”

 

Tetsurou raises his eyebrows, eyes widening with the realization that Bokuto might be moving into one of his self-doubt phases.He clicks his tongue, sitting straighter and sliding a leg over Bokuto’s lap, effectively trapping him in against the couch.Bokuto shuts up immediately, eyes widening.

 

“Kou, dude, _babe_ ,” Tetsurou breathes.“You’re a fucking ten in every sense.”

 

Bokuto chews his lip.“I dunno,” he admits after a moment.“I don’t see it.”

 

Tetsurou rolls his eyes, wrapping his hands around one of Bokuto’s arms and bringing it up to his face.“Look at this.You can’t get meat this good at a goddamn butcher.”He shakes his head in disbelief, planting a row of kisses against the skin of Bokuto’s bicep.“You could probably squeeze me to death,” he murmurs, glancing up at Bokuto’s face.“It’s kinda hot.”

 

Bokuto lets out a sort of shaky, breathless laugh.“That’s not—“

 

“And your hair, dude.”Tetsurou releases Bokuto’s arm, sitting straighter to run his fingers through the crown of Bokuto’s hair.Having showered earlier, the strands are soft—ridiculously so, flashes of color popping between Tetsurou’s fingers.“I’d feel it all day if I could.”

 

Tetsurou slides his fingers back and down, dipping them under the neck of Bokuto’s shirt to the warm, lean feel of muscle.He lowers his voice, ducking his head until Bokuto’s nose is brushing against his.“And don’t even get me started on your back.”

 

Bokuto chews his lip again, gaze flickering between Tetsurou’s eyes and his lips.“You think I’m that hot?”

 

“Hon’, hot is just the tip of the iceberg with you.”Tetsurou raises his eyebrows, making sure Bokuto picks up on the sincerity of the statement.“Sure, Akaashi and Kenma are both ridiculously pretty, and I pride myself on my association with good-looking people, but you’re somethin’ else, y’know that?”

 

The corner of Bokuto’s lip twitches, and then he’s grinning, hands flying up to cover his face.“Man,” he says, laughing.“You—what the fuck, Tetsu, you’re so—“

 

Tetsurou blinks, and feels a smile tugging at his own lips.Bokuto’s laughter has always been contagious.He shakes his head, waiting for the snorts to cease to ask what’s got him so wound up, when Bokuto peeks out from beneath his fingers and finishes, “You’re so great, dude, I love you so mu—“

 

Tetsurou snorts, and laughs, pressing a quick kiss to Bokuto’s lips.“You too, babe.”He pulls back.Bokuto grins at him.“You good?”

 

Bokuto nods, nuzzling his nose into Tetsurou’s cheek.“Mmhmm, now it’s my turn.”

 

“Your turn?”

 

“Now I get to list all the things that make you so hot, Tetsu, c’mon.”He nips at Tetsurou’s earlobe, earning a soft intake of breath.

 

Tetsurou laughs.“That might take you a while.”

 

Bokuto hums, the curve of his grin pressed against Tetsurou’s cheek.“Maybe,” he admits.“But we’ve got all night.”


	46. Iwaoi

A startled squeal from somewhere in his bedroom interrupts what had been a perfect shower, and Hajime almost slips in surprise.Catching himself against the wall, he scowls at the white tiles.Oikawa must be home early.

 

“Hajime! This is an _emergency!_ ”

 

Two fists bang against the bathroom door.Hajime flinches as the sounds echo throughout the small bathroom. He sighs, turning off the water, feeling suddenly grateful that he’d locked the door after all.

 

Stepping out of the shower and grabbing a towel, he calls, “Are you dying?”

 

“I might as well be!”

 

Hajime rolls his eyes, deciding to take his time drying off before tying the towel around his waist and heading over to the door.He opens the door, and Oikawa practically tackles him in a second, arms flung haphazardly over Hajime’s shoulder as he struggles to maintain his balance against the slippery tile of the bathroom floor. 

 

A surprised noise escapes Hajime’s throat, one hand going to hold the towel in place.“Tooru—“

 

Oikawa pulls back a fraction, eyes wide in some strange variation of excitement.His grin is glorious, pure childish joy that he tries so hard to hide most of the time.He takes a step back, clutching a wrinkled paper between his hands and presenting it to Hajime.

 

“I cannot _believe_ you didn’t tell me!” he hisses, shaking his head.“You got the job!”

 

Hajime’s jaw goes slack, staring at the paper as if he hadn’t already spent an hour memorizing the offer last night, when it arrived and he— well, he forgot to hide it.

 

“I—“ he tries, but ends up shaking his head.“I did.”

 

“I’m so proud of you,” Oikawa gushes, and then sticks his lower lip out in a pout, excitement fading to something akin to disappointment.“Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

Hajime glances away, throat tight as he swallows.“I—Tooru, I didn’t want you getting all excited for me and— Look.” He sighs, words a culmination of hours of thought.“I don’t even know if I’m going to take the offer.”

 

“ _Not_ take the offer?”Oikawa’s eyes are saucers.“Are you insane?Hajime, It’s twelve months in America, gaining experience that you wouldn’t get anywhere else, practically _lines_ you up for your dream job, how could you not take the offer?They could’ve picked anyone for it, but they wanted _you_.”Oikawa shakes his head.“Don’t you think that means something?It’s what you’ve been dreaming of.”

 

“Maybe part of what I’d dreamed of, but there are other ways to get there, you know?”Hajime reaches his hands out, moving Oikawa aside to walk past him into their bedroom.“This isn’t the end-all be-all.”

 

Oikawa frowns, holding his hand out on his hip as he watches Hajime get dressed.“Maybe not, but you’ve put so much time into this.I _know_ how much you wanted this, don’t think you can just hide it from me.”

 

Hajime throws him a glance.“I’m not hiding it.I _do_ want this, I just—“He clears his throat, digging through the drawer for a decent t-shirt.“Maybe I want other things more than some job.”

 

One of Oikawa’s perfect brows hitches itself higher up on his forehead.“Such as?”

 

A simple question, really, but Hajime realizes he’s trapped.His hands still in the drawer, teeth digging into his lower lip as his mind scrambles for an escape.

 

“Hajime.”

 

Hajime sighs, shaking his head, and glances back over to Oikawa.“It’s a whole year.That’s—that’s a long time.”

 

“Your point?”

 

Hajime glances away.“Maybe I just—I’d rather spend that time with you, y’know.”

 

It’s quiet for a moment, and Hajime loses his will.He glances back, finding Oikawa’s face soft and open and beautiful.Oikawa sighs, stepping closer and snaking an arm around Hajime’s back.His chin digs itself into Hajime’s shoulder, soft tufts of hair tickling his face.Hajime bites his lip, and wraps his arms back around him in a tight hug.

 

When Oikawa’s voice comes, it’s quiet.“Time with me isn’t worth giving up a dream like this, okay?”

 

“No, Tooru—fuck, you _idiot_ , of course it is.It’s worth more than anything.”

 

Oikawa snorts, a warm puff of breath against Hajime’s neck.“Baby, you can have all my time.My whole life.All of it, it’s all yours.Just—just consider it, okay?A year away, and then when you get back, you can have all the time you want.”

 

Hajime closes his eyes, breathing in Oikawa’s scent and trying to picture it—the distance, the loneliness, the lack of his warmth.Twelve months isn’t long, he _knows_ that, but— They’ve never, ever, been apart for so long, not since they first met. 

 

“I’m scared of being without you,” he admits quietly.

 

Oikawa nods.“So am I.”He pulls back slightly, eyes scanning over Hajime’s face.“But you’ve worked so _hard_ for this—you deserve it more than anyone, okay?And I know we’ll make it.A year isn’t anything to us.”

 

Something in Hajime’s expression must give away his hesitance, because Oikawa kisses him softly.“Promise me you’ll at least think about it?”

 

Hajime nods.“Alright.”

 

One corner of Oikawa’s mouth tilts up into a lopsided smirk.“And promise you won’t fall for any hot Americans while over there?”

 

Hajime rolls his eyes, shoving at Oikawa’s shoulder.“Shut up, you idiot.You’d never have any competition.”

 

Oikawa laughs.“I’m that good-looking?”

 

Hajime ignores him.He chews his lip, glancing away for a moment.“You know—your talk of all your time, it being mine— That sounded a bit like a promise too.”

 

Oikawa’s laugh falters, smirk slipping from his mouth.“Maybe.”

 

“Almost sounded like a proposal.” 

 

Oikawa holds his gaze, brows furrowed just slightly in something Hajime—for once—can’t decipher.“Maybe,” he repeats again, taking a breath.“Maybe it was.Or could be.”

 

Hajime nods, and takes a step, intertwining his fingers with Oikawa’s.He pulls them to his face, planting a kiss across his knuckles and feeling the soft puff of Oikawa’s breath by his face.“Then, if I’m doing this, and I’m going to be gone for so long… Before I go, we’ll make those promises for real, okay?”

 

Oikawa stares at him, and Hajime forges on.“Another time.When I’m dressed, and we’re not standing in our bedroom, and I have a ring, and you—you’re not wearing pajamas, looking like you’re about to cry.”

 

Oikawa laughs at that, shaking his head.“Alright.Another time, and I’ll take you up on the offer.”

 

Hajime grins softly, and kisses his forehead.“Promise?”

 

“Promise.”


	47. Bokuaka

_Join the orchestra!Looking for musicians who love making friends and performing competitively at the high school level._

 

Keiji considered the bulletin board in front of him.He knew how much his mother was relying on him to pick a good club, something respectable, something that would help with his university applications eventually.Surely orchestra would be ideal, considering his lessons throughout middle school. 

 

He frowned slightly, leaning closer to the bulletin board and attempting to find the date of tryouts, when a loud whisper fractured his attention.And then another.And another.Keiji narrowed his eyes, trying to regain focus.

 

“… _so_ cute…”

 

“…go _talk_ to…”

 

“…c’ _mon_ , Bo…”

 

There was a slight scuffle beside him, and Keiji turned to watch as two boys (second years; he could recognize their ties) pushed a third (one with crazy, wild hair and a uniform not-quite-tucked-in that Keiji’s fingers itched to fix) in his direction.The third one babbled a series of nonsensical protests, trying to swat their hands away from his back, but immediately quieted down once noticing Keiji’s attention on him. 

 

Keiji met eyes with one of the boy’s conniving friends, frowning slightly as the boy smirked at him and then the two of them ran off, leaving Keiji with—

 

“H-hi!” 

 

Keiji jumped, blinking with wide eyes at the second year now standing right next to him.He swallowed, eye flickering away from the second year’s steady stare. 

 

“Hello,” he said slowly, rubbing his upper arm with nervous fingers. 

 

The second year glanced down in the direction his friends had gone, and then towards the bulletin board; Keiji watched from his peripheral as he stepped closer, lifting one of the papers and shifting another.

 

“I—uh, I see you’re looking at the volleyball poster!” he announced.

 

Keiji blinked; he glanced to the side a fraction, and sure enough, next to the orchestra poster was a wrinkled poster advertising the volleyball club, complete with scribbled text and—were those owls playing with the volleyball?

 

“D’ya like it?”

 

Keiji wet his lips, glancing over to find the boy watching him with eager eyes.He didn’t have the heart to admit that he hadn’t been looking at the poster at all, or that its level of professionalism paled in comparison to the orchestra’s poster.“Um,” he attempted, and then nodded.“It’s very creative.”

 

The boy exhaled visibly, shoulders sagging in apparent relief, and his face lit up beneath a thousand-watt smile. 

 

“Oh, good, good.”He reached a hand up, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.“I’m glad you like it!I made it, by the way.I mean, not that that’s really important, because you wouldn’t have liked it just because of me or anything, but—“

 

Keiji raised an eyebrow, and the boy shut up.He chewed his lip, tilting his head as if trying to get a better view of Keiji, and then tried again. 

 

“Are you thinking of joining?”

 

Keiji’s gaze slotted sideways, flickering back and forth between the two posters.“…not really,” he admitted.

 

“Aw, but why not?”

 

“I’m not really very good at sports.”

 

“You don’t have to be!”Keiji jumped, turning back to face the boy.The boy grinned sheepishly, holding a hand up as if to apologize for his outburst, and then elaborated, “It’s a fun sport, and everyone learns as they go.It’s more about being a team than winning anything—even if we do win a lot.Plus, you look great!Er, r-really athletic, y’know?And, uh, tall!”

 

Keiji bit his lip, considering.His mother certainly wouldn’t be thrilled, but…he couldn’t deny that he was intrigued.“I don’t know,” he compromised.

 

“Have you ever tried before?You look like you’d be a setter—nice hands, I mean.”The boy made a clumsy move with his hands extended above his head; Keiji felt the corner of his lips twitch in amusement.“Like this, yeah?I think you’d be great!”

 

“Are you a setter too, then?”

 

The boy dropped his hands, and Keiji could’ve sworn his chest inflated just the tiniest bit.“Me?Oh, no, no.I’m the ace!Er, well, I will be, you know, second year only _just_ started, but I’m sure I’ve got it this year.” 

 

“You’ll already have a setter then, won’t you?”

 

“Well, yeah, but he’s graduating this year, so we’ll _definitely_ need one next year, and—“The boy shrugged, grinning.“It wouldn’t hurt to have someone else to practice with, y’know?Our setter doesn’t really like tossing to me all that much, but _you_ —I mean, it’s up to you, of course, but—I’d like that.”

 

Keiji ducked his head in an attempt to hide his grin.He cast one last glance towards the posters, and took a breath.“Well, I—I suppose I’ll consider it, then.”

 

The boy’s eyes widened.“Really?You will?Oh man, that’s great!I’ll be a really great teammate too—not that everyone else isn’t great, you’ll love them too.”

 

The bell rang, alerting Keiji to just how late he’d be to his class if he didn’t start walking _now_.The boy glanced around, seeming to realize how empty the halls had gotten. 

 

“Excuse me,” Keiji said, stepping around the boy in the direction of his class.He had taken a dozen steps before realizing how rude that must be, and paused, glancing back over his shoulder.“Um…”

 

The boy spun, keeping up a sort of half-jog backwards. 

 

“What’s your name?”

 

Another grin spread across his cheeks.“I’m Bokuto Koutarou, and you?”

 

“Akaashi Keiji.”

 

Bokuto smiled brighter, waving a hand high up in the air as he picked up his pace backwards.“I’ll see you at tryouts, Akaashi!”

 

Keiji wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed for the overzealous goodbye or be nervous that Bokuto would run into something.But despite that, as he turned away and hurried in the direction of his class (no use, really; he was already going to be late), he felt a persistent smile tugging at his lips.

 

Tryouts, then.Maybe they were something to look forward to after all.


	48. Tsukkiyama

Tadashi wakes to the sound of someone screaming his name.

 

Er, well— _screaming_ may be a bit of an exaggeration.Tsukishima never screams, maybe just _hollers_.Speaks loudly.Extends the last syllable in “Yamaguchi” a little bit.

 

Tadashi yawns, and rolls over, tangling his legs further in the sheets.It takes all his willpower to not ignore Tsukishima and to sit up, rubbing the sleep away from his eyes.He opens one of them, glancing over at the clock on Tsukishima’s bedside table.A sigh escapes his lips at the time.

 

“Yamaguch _iii.”_

 

Tadashi stifles a giggle, and pulls himself off of the futon.He digs around in Tsukishima’s dresser for a bit, slipping on a shirt, and then heads in the direction of the kitchen. 

 

“What’re you doing?”

 

Tsukishima jumps when Tadashi steps up behind him, stirring motions ceasing as he puts down his spoon.Tadashi peeks around his shoulder into the contents of the bowl—some kind of batter?

 

“Pancakes.”

 

Tadashi hums appreciatively, attempting to stick his finger into the batter, but Tsukishima slaps his hand away.Tadashi whines, and Tsukishima hands him another bowl—this one filled with strawberries—stepping slightly to the side to give him space.

 

“Tsukishima-san?” Tadashi asks, taking the bowl of strawberries over to the sink to wash them.

 

Tsukishima clicks his tongue, returning to stirring the batter.“She left for work already.Akiteru has class.”

 

“Oh, just us then?How special.”

 

“Shut up, Yamaguchi.”

 

Tadashi snickers softly to himself, carrying the bowl of strawberries back to the counter next to Tsukishima.He grabs a knife from the silverware bowl and nudges Tsukishima with his elbow.“Am I cutting these?”

 

Tsukishima glances over his shoulder as he heads to the fridge, pulling out a tub of whipped cream.“Yes.But save a few for the cream.”

 

“Sure thing, Tsukki,” Tadashi breathes.

 

He’s a few minutes into cutting the strawberries, enjoying in the blissful, early-morning silence—because, really, they don’t get this type of quiet often, usually with Akiteru running around the house doing whatever or Tsukishima-san working away in the kitchen herself.He loves them both dearly, but he has to admit that alone time with Tsukishima is something extra special. 

 

Tsukishima peeks over his shoulder suddenly, causing him to stop cutting the strawberries, and asks, “What are you doing?”

 

Tadashi glances sideways, grin stretching across his cheeks.“Cutting the strawberries.”

 

“Like flowers?”

 

“Like flowers.I saw a video the other day and wanted to try to do it.Isn’t it cool?”

 

Tsukishima clicks his tongue.“It’s unnecessary.”

 

“Unnecessary but…?”Tadashi grins, watching as Tsukishima turns back to the batter, throwing a quick (but rather forced) frown over his shoulder.He keeps silent, but to Tadashi, that’s as good as flat-out admitting that the strawberry flowers _are_ cool after all.

 

Tadashi bites his lip, smiling to himself.He cuts away at each strawberry for a few minutes, carefully arranging them onto a plate until they resemble a bouquet of roses and he can finally be satisfied.Making sure Tsukishima isn’t watching for a second, he pops a well-deserved berry in his mouth.

 

Tsukishima pulls out a pan, starting up the stove.“Can you put some strawberry juice in the cream while I cook these?”

 

“Strawberry cream?”Tsukishima nods.“Sounds like you’re going all out, aren’t you, Tsukki?”

 

Tadashi already has the exact sound of the _Shut up, Yamaguchi_ that should follow memorized, but it doesn’t come.Instead, Tsukishima rolls his eyes and pours out batter onto the pan, keeping quiet. 

 

So Tadashi smiles to himself, and puts the remaining strawberries in the processor.The sound of the machine cuts through the quiet, so he whistles a soft tune to detract from the intrusion.If he strains his ears, too, he could swear he hears Tsukishima humming along. 

 

He turns off the processor and doesn’t mention it, hoping that he’ll continue.(It might just be Tadashi’s lucky day, because he does.)

 

Tsukishima flips the first set of pancakes, and Tadashi pours the strawberry juice into the cream.

 

“Whisk,” Tadashi says, and holds his hand out.Tsukishima raises his eyebrow, a small grin teasing on his lips, so Tadashi jokes, “Scalpel, nurse,” and wiggles his fingers.

 

Tsukishima rolls his eyes, placing the whisk in Tadashi’s outstretched hand.

 

As Tadashi’s busy whisking the juice into the cream, he watches Tsukishima finish the last set of pancakes and pour out another. Tsukishima tears into one of them, slowly extending his hand to Tadashi.He looks a bit skittish, but Tadashi knows his limits, so he gladly leans forward and takes the bite between his lips.

 

Tsukishima’s eyes widen as Tadashi’s lips brush his fingers, and he yanks back his hand.“Disgusting,” he mutters, turning a red face back to the pan.

 

Tadashi grins, chewing.“They’re really good.”

 

A half-hearted grunt is evidently the only response that Tadashi deserves, but he doesn’t mind.Instead, he gives a few hurried stirs to the cream, dipping his pinky into it with the kind of flourish one usually reserves for a fine dessert. 

 

Tsukishima does a double take when he spots Tadashi’s finger extended in his direction, eyes moving every which way as if calculating a complicated math problem.

 

Tadashi tilts his head, questioning.There’s a slight intake of breath, and then Tsukishima leans forward, lips wrapping softly around the tip of Tadashi’s pinky and tongue swiping against the cream.Tadashi tries to ignore the feeling of heat in his cheeks, a bubble of something new-and-not-new warming his chest.He smiles.

 

“Too sweet?”

 

Tsukishima glances up.“Not at all.”His voice sounds hoarse.Tadashi blames it on the morning.

 

They go back to cooking, Tsukishima finishing up his last set of pancakes and Tadashi starting to layer the rest together on two plates.He arranges the strawberry flowers as best he can, pretending _not_ to notice Tsukishima’s small smile of approval, and finishes with a dollop of whipped cream on each stack.

 

Feeling awfully proud of himself, he steps back to admire his handiwork.Tsukishima steps up beside him, clicking his tongue.

 

“All good, Tsukki?You can’t deny they look good.”

 

Tsukishima rolls his eyes and Tadashi turns to face him at the same moment that Tsukishima reaches around his waist for the pancakes.They collide, chest-to-chest, and Tsukishima’s hand slips on the counter, awkward and clumsy.Tadashi reaches for his arm to steady him.

 

Tadashi giggles despite himself, and immediately claps a hand over his mouth.

 

“Sorry,” he breathes.

 

Tsukishima swallows.He drops his gaze; Tadashi figures he’s embarrassed, and doesn’t call him on it.“Yeah.Yeah, they—they look good.”

 

Tadashi raises his eyebrows.“Hungry?”

 

“Hungry,” Tsukishima echoes, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

 

“Are you hungry?The pancakes—they’re done.”

 

Tsukishima nods slightly, until the words seems to register, and he repeats the motion, this time more confident, sure.Tadashi releases his arm and he steps back, leaving a large gap between them as he gathers the plates and heads off towards the living room.Tadashi follows after him, forks in tow, and takes a seat beside him as Tsukishima turns on the television.

 

“What’re we watching?” 

 

Tsukishima hums, cutting out a first bite of the pancakes.“Documentary.I recorded one on mass extinctions.”

 

Tadashi has absolutely zero interest in mass extinctions, but he grins.“Sounds great.”He pretends to watch the screen, as the narrator dives into some random scientific theory, but his eyes are elsewhere, reveling in the blissful expression that Tsukishima doesn’t hide as he takes his first bite.

 

It’s all the gratification he needs, and really, history documentaries aren’t so bad after all.

 

Tsukishima scoots closer (accidentally, he’s pretending), bumping against Tadashi’s leg with his own.Tadashi glances over, but he’s facing straight-ahead, eyes glued on the screen.

 

Tadashi turns back to his own plate, keeping his grin and his innermost thoughts to himself.Mornings with Tsukishima are special, and always have been, and sometimes he’s tempted to push the boundaries between them.But, on days like this, when they’re dancing somewhere in between, he finds that he doesn’t mind so much staying the way things are.

 

“That’s absurd,” Tsukishima says, and Tadashi glances over to see him wrinkling his nose at the screen.

 

“Mm,” he agrees through a mouthful of strawberry.He leans to the left, bringing his arm flush against Tsukishima’s.Tsukishima lets him.“Sure is.”


	49. Bokuroo

“Bo, what are you—?”

 

“Hear me out, hear me out.Sawamura's gonna kill us when he sees, you know—“

 

“But the _closet_ —“

 

Bokuto’s breath is nothing more than a puff against Tetsurou’s lips—a snort, a laugh, maybe.Tetsurou can’t see for shit to tell the difference.He usually relies on Bokuto’s smile for that, but in the closet, there’s just darkness.

 

“Give it twenty minutes.”

 

Tetsurou quirks an eyebrow.“That’s longer than you usually last.”

 

“ _Hey_ ,” Bokuto protests, and Tetsurou feels hands grab at his waist.He snickers despite himself, stumbling forward into the solid mass that is Bokuto Koutarou, his hands grabbing onto Bokuto’s shirt to steady himself.“We’re hiding, that’s all.”

 

“Oh?”

 

Bokuto hums affirmation, grinning; Tetsurou feels it rather than sees it this time, pressed up against his neck.Bokuto mouths a series of messy kisses along the column of his throat, loud smacks echoing throughout the small space.

 

“Hiding,” Tetsurou repeats, sounding vaguely amused.

 

“ _Hiding_.”

 

“I feel like you’re seducing me.”

 

Bokuto pulls back (though _back_ is highly relative; Tetsurou can still feel their noses brushing), his thumbs massaging circles in Tetsurou’s sides.“Yeah?Is it working?”

 

“Thought we were hiding.”

 

Bokuto makes a sort of frustrated noise, slipping his fingers underneath Tetsurou’s shirt.Tetsurou sucks in his breath, because of course Bokuto’s fingers feel like ice picks, and hisses, “Warm your damn _hands_ , Bo—“

 

Bokuto nods, messing up Tetsurou’s hair.“Ah, right, ‘course.”He slides his hands back, and— Tetsurou barks out a sharp laugh.

 

“You little shit—“

 

Bokuto’s grin is evident in his voice.He wiggles his fingers from where they are, shoved beneath Tetsurou’s boxers to cup his ass, and gives a quick squeeze.“Are they warm?”

 

“No, actually.Still cold.”

 

“Oh.Well, hey, are you turned on yet, Tetsu?”

 

Tetsurou snorts.“Maybe I’d be more in the mood if we weren’t stuck in the closet where all the dirty jerseys are kept.”

 

Bokuto gasps.“So, the spare room?”

 

A grin works its way onto Tetsurou’s lips, and he slides his fingers underneath the neck of Bokuto’s shirt, nails rails pressing little crescent-moon indents on the muscles of his back.“You didn’t think of that initially?”

 

He can practically picture the owlish blink that Bokuto’s silence indicates.“Oh.But we were hiding.I dragged you to the first room I saw.”

 

“Hiding,”Tetsurou repeats.“Wait, we’re seriously hiding from Sawamura?I thought you were trying to seduce me.”

 

“Well, _yeah_ , we’re hiding from Sawamura, did you see what I did?But, I mean, who can be in a small space with you and not lose any inkling of self control?D’ya see how hot you are, Tetsu?I mean, _you_ can’t see, but you’re gonna have to trust me on this one because—“

 

Tetsurou mouths at the shell of Bokuto’s ear.“Babbling, Kou,” he whispers, and Bokuto shuts up. 

 

“Sorry,” Bokuto says, all quiet and fast.

 

“What do you say we find this spare room?”

 

“I say a massive _yes_ to that—“Bokuto unlocks the closet door then, and freezes, hand still loose around the doorknob as if an important thought had suddenly hit him mid-sentence.

 

Tetsurou pauses, tilting his head.“What?”

 

Bokuto blinks, and then grins (and Tetsurou swears he could power the entire gym with that grin’s wattage).“Y’know, I always knew I’d be stepping outta the closet with you.”

 

And he flings open the door, and Tetsurou’s _gone_ —he really hates himself for laughing so hard at Bokuto’s jokes, especially when most of them are so bad, but, well, this is his life and these are his choices.He doubles over, and Bokuto giggles too, swinging an arm over his shoulder.There’s a split-second of horror when they hear Sawamura’s footsteps padding down the hallway, and they lock gazes, feet moving on their own accord until they’re both running, cackling like madmen.

 

(They find the spare room eventually, but Tetsurou thinks he might even enjoy those moments before that best.)


	50. Kyouhaba

There are fights around school sometimes, which Shigeru always does his best to keep his nose out of, because they’re usually nothing more than petty violence.  But when Watari runs up to him, out of breath and eyes wide with worry, Shigeru freezes.  He turns and sees a group of kids running somewhere while Watari struggles to regain his breath, with loud whispers of “Mad Dog,” and then he’s gone.

Kyoutani’s still standing when he shows up, but the other kid isn’t so lucky.  Shigeru figures it must’ve been him to start the fight, because Kyoutani would never harm anyone unprovoked; the fact that he’s fighting at all to begin with makes chills run down Shigeru’s spine.

The kid tries to stand up, supported by two others, but Kyoutani lunges, his fist connecting with the kid’s stomach.

Shigeru feels sick.  

“Ken!” he shrieks, pushing through the masses of people starting to gather around the group.

Kyoutani turns, eyes wide in something that’s perhaps a bit different than his usual anger, and that’s enough time for the kid to climb to his feet and land a punch square against Kyoutani’s jaw.

Shigeru shoves his way into the small circle of space, checking one of the boys with his shoulder to clear him off of Kyoutani.  There’s a scuffle, full of joints and knuckles and sharp edges being thrown in every which way, and one of them connects with Shigeru’s cheek—an elbow, he thinks, but isn’t sure—hard enough to daze.  

He gets a foot in between the two of them, back pressed up against Kyoutani’s chest, and the kid’s palm collides with his chin.  Shigeru feels the taste of blood fill his mouth, and realizes he’s bitten his own lip (which is embarrassing enough in itself, and he’s sure to be made fun of later).

He’s not exactly sure how they manage to get away—maybe more people intervene, maybe a teacher shows up, maybe he just drags Kyoutani away really hard—but they wind up behind the old sports’ shed, breathing heavy against the wood.

“You’re bleeding.”

Shigeru glances up in time for Kyoutani’s hands to come to cradle his face, one of his thumbs brushing against the split in his lip.  His breath catches, both at the tender feeling and at the sight of someone else’s blood on Kyoutani’s knuckles.  He steps back, shoving Kyoutani’s hands off.

Kyoutani can’t conceal the look of hurt.

“How many times,” Shigeru breathes, gripping one of Kyoutani’s wrists in his fist.  “How many times have I told you that you _can’t_ be fighting?”

Kyoutani’s jaw jumps as he swallows, all tense angry energy emanating from his every expression.  “You weren’t _there_ —“

“Do I need to be there?  To babysit you?  To keep you from getting in trouble every time someone looks at you the wrong way?”

Kyoutani’s nostrils flare.  “It wasn’t like that, you complete shithead.”

“Wasn’t like that?”  Yahaba sighs.  “Every goddamn fight wasn’t like that.  That’s what you _always_ say, Ken.”

“Because it’s true!”  Kyoutani scowls.  “They’re not about me!”

“Then _what_?”

Kyoutani exhales hard, through his nose, and steps forward.  This time, when he reaches for Shigeru’s face, Shigeru lets him, slightly relishing in the soft brush of Kyoutani’s callused fingers against his cheeks.  “Did one of ‘em hit you?” he asks, voice a whisper.

Shigeru sighs.  “No, it was an accident.”

Kyoutani grunts, lifting Shigeru’s chin gently to better see his cheek.  His eyebrows furrow in intense concentration, brain likely moving a mile a minute as he considers what to do next.

Shigeru bites his lip—a nervous habit—and winces when he tastes blood.

“Don’t do that.”  Kyoutani tilts his head down.  “C’mon, we should go get gauze or something to stop the bleeding.”

“Well, what about you?”  Shigeru reaches for Kyoutani’s face, but Kyoutani ducks away, frowning.  “You’re gonna bruise.”

“Nothin’ to do about that now.  Now, c’ _mon_ , Shige—“

“Why’s it always about me?”  Shigeru protests, though he knows he shouldn’t.  Arguing isn’t what he means.  He doesn’t want to yell at Kyoutani, and yet— He’s never really known how to address his feelings towards him.  “Ken, why don’t you ever worry about yourself?  Take care of yourself, you know that’s all I want from you.  You _know_ I worry, you asshole.”

Kyoutani scowls.  “Because it _is_ always about you.  The fights—what, you think I just do it for fun?  You think I like beating some random kid’s face in?”

“No, but—“

“Those guys are fucking insane, and sometimes they say things, and sometimes those things are about _you_ , and you can’t honestly expect me to just leave it when they treat you like you’re something—something disgusting, and wrong, and—“

“Kentarou.”  Kyoutani glances up as Shigeru takes a breath, tugging Kyoutani against his chest.  It’s not so much a hug as him simply wrapping his arms around a stiff body, but he figures the message gets across.  Kyoutani’s never been particularly cuddly when caught off-guard.  “Listen to me.  I know what they say, okay?  I hear it too.  But you gotta promise me that you’ll start letting it go.”

Kyoutani looks offended at that.  “Let it go?  I can’t just—“

“Yes, you can.  Look at me. They’re words, that’s it.  They’re not gonna do anything to me.”

“But if they _did_ —“

“If they did, then I’m perfectly capable of handling myself, and by all means, you can help me.  But they won’t.  They’re not like you, they’re cowards.”

Kyoutani swallows, holding his gaze for a moment.   He seems to consider Shigeru’s words, until his eyes flicker downwards.  “Alright.”

Shigeru lets out a sigh of relief.  “Thank you.  You’re such an idiot sometimes, you know.”

Kyoutani grunts.  “You bit your own lip.”

Shigeru laughs lightly.  “Fuck off.”

“Mm.  Now I can’t kiss you until it’s healed, dumbass.”

That statement gives Shigeru pause.  “Really?”

Kyoutani nods, and cups his face again, lips gently brushing against one cheek and then another.  “Yeah.  But it’s okay, I think.  Plenty of other places to kiss.”

Shigeru turns red in an instant, and Kyoutani laughs—maybe at him, maybe at the situation in general.  Whatever it is though, he doesn’t particularly mind anymore.


	51. Kuroken

It takes a minute for the words to hit.Tetsurou blinks, and swallows, and turns to stare at the wall, mind processing.Kenma stays still beside him, wringing his fingers and pretending to focus on the game in front of him.

 

At long last, Tetsurou says, “What did you say?”

 

Kenma chews his lip.“I said that maybe you should play a round against the three Coms.”

 

“Why?”

 

Kenma’s gaze slides over to him.He tilts his head a fraction of an inch, regarding Tetsurou as if confused by his protests.“Because it’s not fair, you always lose when you play me.I thought you’d like to win.”

 

“Kenm _aaa_ ,” Tetsurou whines suddenly, lunging forward to wrap his arms around Kenma’s waist.Kenma stiffens at first, then sighs, already having grown used to Tetsurou’s sudden signs of affection.He pats lazily away at the top of Tetsurou’s head.

 

“What?”

 

Tetsurou shakes his head, nose digging into Kenma’s side.“It’s about the _game_ , not winning.I don’t care if I win, I just want to play with you.”

 

Kenma wrinkles his nose.“What’s the point of playing Mario Kart if you’re not trying to win?”

 

“Oh, I never said I wasn’t _trying_.But playing is more important than winning, when I get to play with you.”

 

It’s silent for a long moment, so Tetsurou glances up, ready to see Kenma’s expression, and laughs at the look of pure disgust and annoyance.“Aw, Kenma,” he says, rolling onto his back so that his head can rest in Kenma’s lap.“If you’re embarrassed, you can just tell me.”

 

“I’m not embarrassed,” Kenma protests automatically.

 

“Are too.”

 

“Are not.”

 

Tetsurou grins.Kenma eyes him warily, before repeating, “Are _not_.”

 

“I think it’s cute.”

 

Kenma rolls his eyes.“Are you playing as Princess Peach again?”

 

“Mmhmm.”He watches as Kenma scrolls through the character selection screen, biting gently on his bottom lip in concentration, and smiles (a soft one, subtle enough that Kenma won’t notice, probably).When Kenma furrows his brows and wrinkles his nose, trying to decide which character to pick for himself, Tetsurou reaches up and tucks his hair behind his ear.

 

Kenma blinks, glancing down with wide eyes.“What?”

 

“Cute,” Tetsurou says simply.

 

Kenma looks over his expression, considering.“You’re affectionate tonight.”

 

“You’re letting me play Mario Kart with you.”

 

“We’re not doing a whole Grand Prix.”

 

“One race is good enough for me.”

 

And really, it is.Kenma bites his lip again, and Tetsurou feels the sudden urge to sooth the bite with a kiss.But he refrains, instead accepting the game controller that Kenma hands to him, sitting up to be shoulder-to-shoulder with him.(There’s plenty of time for kissing later, he figures.)

 

“I won’t use any shells on you,” Kenma says quietly, and even though it’s a handicap, Tetsurou knows there’s still zero chances of him winning.

 

“Aw, Kenma,” he repeats.“You’re awfully affectionate tonight as well.”

 

Kenma hums, pressing the start button.The countdown begins, and Tetsurou exaggerates revving the engine on his pink motorbike, earning a small (but there, it’s still there) laugh from Kenma.

 

(He loses miserably.But, Kenma gives consolation kisses, and he doesn’t mind so much.)


	52. Bokuroo

There's a hand at his ankle that drags him out of sleep.  He goes a bit unwillingly, kicking at whoever it is, because his dream--god _damn_  it, they were just about the reach the final boss.  The hand at his ankle drops to his foot and tickles, stifled giggles accompanying the final pull into consciousness.

 

Kuroo jolts awake, sitting up and almost slamming his face into Bokuto's.  He's all too aware of too many things at once--the air, hot and stifling, reminding him just how hard it had been to fall asleep in the first place.  His teammates, sleeping on their futons all around him.  And Bokuto, bedhead ridiculous, crouching in front of him with a popsicle in his mouth.

 

"Hey," he whispers.  "You awake?"

 

Kuroo scowls.  He flicks Bokuto's forehead, kicking the sweaty blanket off of his legs.  "What does it look like?"

 

"Good," Bokuto stands, extending a hand.  "I found something cool, come with me."

 

Kuroo takes the hand, and regrets it instantly.  Bokuto's fingers are calloused but sticky, though Kuroo doesn't know if the reason is sweat or the popsicle.  He's not sure which he'd rather it be.

 

They take careful steps around the rest of Nekoma, Kuroo stifling laughter as Bokuto almost trips over one of Lev's legs.  Bokuto reaches the door first, and disappears in the two seconds it takes Kuroo to catch up.  When he does, Bokuto's at the end of the hall, running eagerly around the corner.

 

Kuroo curses under his breath, and takes off after him.  He follows, a right, a left, another left, out the door.  The outside air hits him like a wall.  He feels the back of his neck prickling with sweat, and tugs the shirt away from his torso, trying to catch his breath.  He squints into the dark, hearing nothing but the cicadas calling from the trees.  "Bo--?"

 

"Here!"

 

Kuroo whirls, and sees the outline of a body illuminated by the light of an old vending machine.  He jogs over, cursing.  "What's with the running?  It's the middle of the night, I'm hot, I'm sweaty--"

 

Bokuto frowns at the vending machine.  He's done with the popsicle at this point, simply chewing on the stick as he shakes the machine with both hands.  His lips and chin are stained blue, along with the rest of his fingers.  "I found this thing, and I gave it my last money, but it only gave me _one_  popsicle instead of two, and--and I want what I paid for."  He gives the machine one more fruitless shake.  "But it's stuck. I needed more hands."

 

Kuroo's _exhausted_ , and way too hot, but he laughs.  He steps up beside Bokuto, resting his chin on Bokuto's shoulder.  He taps curiously at one of the vending machine's buttons, to no avail, and sighs.  "You wear me out, kid."

 

Bokuto shrugs, bumping Kuroo's chin with the movement.  "I'll give you a lick if you help," he bargains.

 

Kuroo snorts, biting his tongue on the innuendo.  "So generous."  He steps aside anyways, bracing his hands on one side of the machine and gesturing for Bokuto to do the same.  After a bit of coordination, they find a decent position, and Kuroo counts a soft _one, two, three_  before they begin rocking the thing.  

 

It takes them three rocks before the machine teeters a bit too precariously on one end, and Kuroo panics, pushing back with too much force.  It slams into the side of the building, creating a loud bang that echoes toward the trees and back.  Kuroo figures they may as well have woken the entire training camp.  It's dead silent for three seconds afterwards, before something drops within the machine with a tiny _clunk_.

 

Kuroo slaps a hand to his mouth to stifle his laugh, and Bokuto bursts into a fit of giggles.

 

"Oops," Bokuto says, and bends to collect the popsicle.  He unwraps it and takes a lick, eyes closing in pure enjoyment.

 

"Thanks," he says, lips turning from blue to purple.  "Your help was greatly appreciated."  He extends the popsicle in Kuroo's direction.  "Have some?  A token of my gratitude."

 

Kuroo dodges the popsicle, taking a step closer.  " _Or_  I could have something else in exchange," he says, pushing Bokuto's arm out of the way and pressing a kiss to Bokuto's cheek.

 

Bokuto's brows crease in confusion before, "Oh."  He giggles, having more of his popsicle.  "Oh, bro--"  He laughs again.  "So _suave_ , Kuroo.  Such a flirt, such a ladie's man."

 

"Shut _up,_ just kiss me--" he all but whines, because Bokuto's grape-stained lips are looking more appealing each minute, and they might likely have two minutes before both of their coaches come running out of the building from the racket of the vending machine.

 

Bokuto humors him, lips an icy cold that complement the heat oh-so-perfectly.  "Happy?" 

 

"Mm," Kuroo hums, and steals a bite of the popsicle when Bokuto's not looking.  "Very."


	53. Iwaoi

If Oikawa Tooru had been told that he would wind up checking out Iwaizumi Hajime— _the_  Iwaizumi Hajime, who all the girls had crushes on and who was friends with all the it-people—at his family’s space-themed book store, he would’ve laughed.

But no, here he was, wearing an alien sweater vest with a pin that said “Let me be your intergalactic guide!” That would have been embarrassing enough, which is why he never told anyone at school about where he worked (or that he actually enjoyed it).  But to top it all off, Iwaizumi Hajime was standing there across from him, holding a book on the cosmos.

Tooru cleared his throat.  “Um, is there anything else I can help you with today?”

Iwaizumi shook his head. “Nope, thanks.”  He handed the book over, glancing over Tooru’s pin with a slight smirk, and Tooru felt like sinking into the floor.

“It’s a cool store,” he added.

Tooru looked up.  “Oh, sure, I guess,” he said, scanning the book.

Iwaizumi raised his eyebrows.  He rubbed the back of his neck, almost bashfully.  “Sure?  Thought you were really into astronomy, and stuff.  You won that award last year, right?”

Tooru blinked, feeling first shock and then the bit of pride that accompanied any mention of the award.  Yes, he had, and yes, it would look  _great_  on a college application, but the fact that Iwaizumi knew about that?  “I didn’t know you even knew my name,” he said.  “It’ll be seventeen ninety-nine.”

Iwaizumi laughed.  “‘Course I do.  You’re Oikawa Tooru, right?  You’re practically a genius.  Among other things.”  He watched Tooru from across the counter, head cocked to the side.

Tooru held his gaze, if just for a moment, heart beating decidedly faster in his chest.  And then the spell broke and he thought to himself,  _Even if you are perfect and godly and an amazing kisser, there is no way that Iwaizumi Hajime knows that._

He cleared his throat.  “Seventeen ninety-nine.”

Iwaizumi nodded.  “Right.”  He fished through his wallet and pulled out a bill, handing it to Tooru.

“Sorry, I just realized I didn’t even introduce myself.  I’m Iwaizumi.”

Tooru barked out a laugh.  “I know who you are, Iwa-chan.  Everyone does.”

“Iwa-chan?” Iwaizumi turned red, face creased in a confused scowl.  “Don’t call me that.”

Okay,  _that_  was cute.  Tooru decided then and there that Iwaizumi would now only be referred to as Iwa-chan, even if only mentally.  He fished change out of the register, counting it in his hands.  

“You know, does your job responsibility of being an intergalactic guide extend to knowing anything about calculus?”

Tooru blinked, extending the change and receipt to Iwaizumi, who took it.  “You’re asking if I know calculus?”

“Well, if you would be willing to teach me anything.  You have the best grades in class.”

Tooru chewed his lip, thinking.  Time alone with Iwaizumi, talking about calculus, which was possibly the sexiest of all the school subjects?  “Of course I’m willing, Iwa-chan,” he said with a grin.

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes, but couldn’t keep that well-beloved smile off his face.  He scribbled something onto the receipt, handing it to Tooru, who blinked down at ten numbers.

“Well, give me a call then.  You know, for calculus.”


	54. Iwaoi

The door bursts open in the middle of what is usually Hajime’s dead shift—5pm on a Sunday.  The EMTs wheel in a gurney with a tall-looking man strapped in, mouth wide open in complaint.  Hajime can’t help but notice that the EMTs look exhausted.

Hajime stands from his place and walks over, taking the chart from one of the EMTs.

“We have another call,” she says.  “Everything’s on the chart.” Hajime nods.  “And don’t be afraid to sedate him, for the love of God.”

Hajime raises his eyebrows, stepping back and allowing the gurney to be wheeled into one of the vacant rooms.  He watches the orderlies slowly put the man on the bed, and scans over the chart.

Mild head injury, potential concussion, some slight facial contusions… Seems easy enough, Hajime thinks to himself.  Why the drama?

He steps into the room and is immediately overcome by the noise.

One of his orderlies, Kyoutani, is bickering with the man, throwing his hands up in frustration.

“Don’t you know who I am?” the man is hollering, voice a garbled mess.  

“Kyoutani,” Hajime barks.  “Out.”  Kyoutani reluctantly leaves and Hajime steps up to the man, scanning over his face.  And yes, well, aside from the ugly bruising around the left side of the face, and the one eye that’s swollen shut, it is a familiar face.  Somehow still pretty.  But he can’t place a finger on it.

“Good evening, Mr…” Hajime frowns at the lack of name on the chart.

“Can you turn on the game?  Turn on the game!” the man orders.  Hajime frowns, but nods to his nurse, and she flips the channel to the only game on TV at this time, the national volleyball team.  The man perks up immediately, one eye straining to capture all the action.  His eyes notes the score and he groans. “ _Fuck_.”

Hajime frowns and clears his throat.  “Excuse me, your name—?”

“Oikawa.  Oikawa Tooru.”

And then it hits him.  Oikawa Tooru, number one setter on the number one team in the country.  He could recognize that pretty face anywhere, if not for the bruising.  

“Okay, Oikawa-san, my name is Iwaizumi Hajime and I’ll be your doctor today.  What happened?”

Oikawa puts a hand to his head and curses at the pain.  “I don’t know, I went to save a ball and—and I guess I ran into something.  I don’t know.”

Hajime nods, and starts his examination.  At even the slightest touch, Oikawa moans loudly in pain.  Hajime rolls his eyes, and turns to his nurse.  “Let’s put him on some local anesthesia.  I’m not dealing with this.”

He continues with the exam as the anesthesia is administered and notices how the exclamations quiet and then eventually disappear.  He holds Oikawa’s cheek gently, turning his face to the side for a better angle.

“I need a suture kit,” he tells the nurse, and she scrambles out of the room.

Oikawa hums.  “So strong,” he practically coos.

Hajime freezes, but then quickly shakes off the surprise.  This isn’t the first time a patient has flirted with him, not by a long shot.  But something about  _Oikawa Tooru_ , who Hajime has imagined on a number of times—in a strictly athletic admiration, of course—makes him nearly blush.

He laughs.  “Strong, huh?  Well, I’m quite surprised to see that you’re such a baby.  It’s just a few stitches, and I have to put you on drugs.”

Oikawa titters, and Hajime accepts the suture kit from the nurse as she returns.  “Hold still,” he instructs.

Hajime can feel that one eye watching him as he starts stitching.  He glances briefly at the score on the TV and frowns.  “They’re not doing too hot without you, huh?”

“They weren’t doing too hot  _with_  me,” Oikawa grumbles. He fixes Hajime with another low-lidded look.  “Gosh, you’re  _gorgeous_.”

The nurse giggles from across the room, and Hajime feels his cheeks heat up.  “And you’re high,” he says.  He tells the nurse to go book an MRI.

“Are you a model?” Oikawa continues.  He reaches for one of Hajime’s arms, feeling the bicep.  “Wow.  Do you play a sport?”

Hajime barks out a laugh.  “Stop touching me.”  He finishes up the stitching and sighs.  “I play volleyball too, in my free time.”

Oikawa giggles.  “A spiker, for sure, with those arms.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“We’d be the perfect pair,” he says, reaching for Hajime’s face, but Hajime dodges.  

“Let’s first make sure you can get back on the court,” he says.  The nurse returns to inform him the MRI is ready, and he nods in response.  “How does that sound?”

“Only if you can join me, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says.

The nurse laughs, and then claps a hand to her mouth when Hajime fixes her with an embarrassed glare.  He bites his lip, and shakes his head.  “Well, I’ll leave my response a maybe. Try me again when you’re in a clear head space.“


	55. Iwaoi

“Alright, for this next lab, I’m going to need you all to break into pairs—“

Hajime could barely contain his groan as a pair of strong fingers instantly latched on to his bicep, tugging his entire chair to the right.  He spun and fixed Oikawa with his most scathing glare, hoping it would scare him off and allow him to partner with someone who actually knew a  _single_  thing about chemistry.  He could not handle another shitty grade on a lab report.

Oikawa stuck out his bottom lip, grip unwavering.  Out of the corner of his eye, Hajime could see Matsukawa elbow Hanamaki and hear the two of them erupting into snickers.

 _No_ , Hajime mouthed to Oikawa.   _No way._

Oikawa rolled his eyes, nodding emphatically.  He scooted closer in his own chair, pulling out his lab notebook and a pencil from his bag.

“C’mon,” he whispered, hot in Hajime’s ear.  “You love me.”

“Fuck you,” Hajime whispered back.  The girl behind them shushed him, and he continued, softer, “I need an A on this.”

“And you’ll get an A! Pinky promise, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime eyed his suspiciously, but the hands weren’t moving from his bicep and he was beginning to get sore.  He groaned.  “Fine.“

“—which you can find in the back of the room.  Come to me with any questions.”

The room burst into activity as everyone around them—everyone who had been paying attention—started assembling their flasks and chemicals in front of them.  Hajime whipped his head around, trying to piece together what the teacher had instructed them from what he was seeing.  Okay, three flasks, yes… A bunsen burner… He grabbed for the containers of chemicals at the center of their lab bench and then squinted at Hanamaki.  A calculator, okay… And was that a sandwich?

“Iwa-chan, gimme,” Oikawa instructed, hand extended for one of the chemicals.

Hajime turned and reluctantly handed it over.  He lit the bunsen burner and waited for Oikawa to figure out what step was next.

“You know,” Oikawa muttered, “I’m awfully offended that you doubt my chemistry skills.”

Hajime flicked his forehead, to which Oikawa tittered and rubbed the spot.  “You’re a walking disaster.”

Oikawa grumbled to himself.  He added something to the flask and stirred.  After a moment, he giggled to himself.  “I think we make the best lab partners.  Wanna know why?”

“No.”

“We have great chemistry.”

Hajime groaned.  

“Hand me that bottle.”

Hajime sighed and handed it over.  “You know, maybe we’d get along better if you refrained from your shitty jokes.”

Oikawa scoffed.  He glanced away from the flask for a second to make a kissy face at Hajime.  “You love me, Iwa-chan.  That’s why you’re my boy—“

A bang went off, silencing the entire room.  Hajime flinched instinctively, grabbing Oikawa in his arms, one hand pressing Oikawa’s face into the curve between his neck and shoulder.  They stayed like that for a moment, frozen, until he heard the first laugh.  

Slowly, he peeked, and blinked at the sight of a completely clean, untouched lab set-up.  Hanamaki and Matsukawa, on the other hand, looked like they had just taken a bath in soot, and stood there giggling over their war zone of a table.

Hajime shoved Oikawa away, cheeks burning crimson.  

“Oh my God,” Oikawa said softly, in awe.  “My hero!  Iwa-chan!  You tried to save me!”

“Shut up,” Hajime hissed.  He turned back to their flask, which was bubbling away but definitely not explosive.  “I thought you’d blown us up.”

Oikawa looked offended.  “I told you that you’d get an A.”  He redirected his attention to the flask, but Hajime couldn’t help but notice the small grin playing on his lips.  It was cute, he admitted to himself.  He bumped Oikawa’s shoulder with his own after a moment.

Oikawa glanced up, that soft and tender smile still on his lips.

“Of course I’d save you, dumbass.  Always.”


	56. Iwaoi

Tooru watched from across the set as Iwaizumi Hajime, award-winning actor in every man’s favorite action flick, tenderly brushed the hair out of his heroine’s face.  He cupped her cheek softly, face creased in apparent pain.  Rain battered the two of them from the sprinklers above, causing their hair and clothes to grow damp and cling to each of their bodies.  Tooru imagined she must’ve been crying, but it was hard to tell with the rain.  Maybe he should tell the director to cut the rain out; it was a bit cheesy anyways.

“If we don’t see each other again—“ she began.

“Don’t,” he cut in gruffly. “We  _will_  see each other again.”  And with that, he cupped her face in both hands and leaned in for The Kiss.  She leaned into it too, and they kissed well enough, but Tooru frowned.  Where was the passion? The love?  It just looked so…fake.

The intern in charge of the rain that poured down on the two of them called out all of a sudden, and the rain shut off, a loud hiss emanating from one of the pipes.  The director cursed and hollered out a resigned, “Cut!”  The twenty-eighth cut of that day.  “Let’s all take five, everybody.“

Tooru rolled his eyes.   _Amateurs_. He scanned over his script lazily.  Masculine hero, beautiful love interest, blah blah blah.  Then Tooru would sweep in and steal away the damsel in distress, and then, well.  He and Iwaizumi would face off and Tooru would die in a fiery explosion.

Iwaizumi wandered over, toweling himself off from the rain. Tooru watched the translucent fabric stretch across the expanse of Iwaizumi’s chest, and sighed wistfully.  He redirected his gaze to the script, reading over the kiss scene one more time.

“You’d think you could nail that kiss by now,” he said.

Iwaizumi paused.  “Sorry?”

Tooru sighed.  He sat straighter in his chair, gesturing at the script.  “I’m just saying, Iwa-chan, that you’re not playing the part realistically.  This is the last time you’ll see her, for all you know!  You could put just a bit more feeling into it.”

Iwaizumi scowled.  “And you’re the expert?” Tooru smirked.  “Actually, never mind.”

“I’ve won a Golden Globe—“

“For you outstanding acting in romance movies.  You’re Japan’s sweetheart,” said Kiyoko Shimuzu, the damsel in distress herself, as she walked up to the two of them.

“Let’s not forget—“

“Your early acting career in family-friendly movies.  As well as a brief foray into adult film.  We know.”  She winked, and offered him a coffee.

Tooru humphed, accepting it.  “Shimuzu-chan, don’t you think Iwa-chan could put more feeling into the scene?  You’re his one true love, after all.”

She thought for a moment.  “I don’t know.  Iwaizumi-san is a good kisser.  I think the audience will like it no matter what.”

Iwaizumi blushed.  “Thank you.”

“But,” she continued, “it would make sense if he acted more desperately.  Lost his carefully-constructed masculinity for a moment.  That would really make the audience go crazy.”

Tooru nodded.  “Exactly!” He turned to Iwaizumi and winked.  “Step out of your shell.”

Iwaizumi’s cheeks darkened, and he reached up to towel off his hair.  He was quiet for a moment.  “I’m not used to romance,” he admitted.  “It’s usually just the, y’know, stunts and explosions and stuff.”

“Well,  _I’ve_  never been a bad guy,” Tooru said.  “But it’s acting.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes, muttering, “Well, you’re a dumbass, so.”

Kiyoko exchanged a look with Tooru.  “You should teach him,” she told Tooru.

This time, it was Tooru’s turn to blush.  “W-what? Are you saying—?”

She nodded.  “Kissing lessons.”  They were all quiet for a moment.  She sipped her coffee.  “Well, I’m off to hair and makeup.  I’ll see you for the next take, Iwaizumi-san.”

Tooru watched her head off to her assistants, feeling faintly trapped.  He cleared his throat.  “Well—“

“Here’s the thing.  I’m just not attracted to her, you know?  Like, she’s gorgeous, but it’s hard to pretend you’re in love with someone when there’s nothing there.”

Tooru spluttered, turning to Iwaizumi in surprise.

“What?” Iwaizumi asked, defensive.  “You’re the expert.”

“Well, yes, but—“ He bit his lip, deciding to go along with it.  “Just pretend.  That’s all it is.  If you’re not into her, well, just pretend she’s someone you are into.  That’s the fun in it.  You can pretend you’re kissing whoever you want.”

Iwaizumi’s gaze dropped a fraction of an inch, to lower on Tooru’s face, and Tooru watched him lick his lips.  “Anyone, huh?”

“Anyone at all.”

He startled, gaze flying back up to Tooru’s.  “Right.  Thanks, I’ll—I’ll keep that in mind.”

Tooru nodded, feeling a bit lightheaded.  “Sure.”

“Let’s get going, everyone!” the director hollered, and Iwaizumi jumped.  He made a vague gesture over his shoulder towards the set.

“I’ll be off, then.”

Tooru smiled politely, and promptly buried himself in the script as soon as Iwaizumi’s back was turned.  He kept himself busy, avoiding the hot gaze of what felt like the entire set, but couldn’t avoid sneaking a peek at the scene when they got back to that fateful kiss.   _Huh_ , he thought, watching Iwaizumi. He ignored the flush of heat to his cheeks when the director once more yelled Cut! and Iwaizumi immediately met his gaze, lips turned up in a playful–almost flirtatious–smirk.   _He got it right._


End file.
